


We Don't Need to Talk About It

by MyckiMor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anti-religious remarks, Dean Being Dean, M/M, Mpreg, Nightmares, PTSD, Slash, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiMor/pseuds/MyckiMor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left behind by Castiel in the midst of a rather delicate situation, Jimmy finds himself facing several major decisions. When his trip back to Pontiac does not go as planned, the ex-vessel turns to the only person he can trust... Who is also the one person that he has wronged above all others. Torn by guilt and obligation in light of new events, Jimmy discovers that strength is found in many forms, and that forgiveness is not always necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Conscious Attack of Morality

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Since becoming a fan of Jimmy/Dean, I look at Castiel a little bit differently... Bad thing? I think not. I still love the little bugger. ~ <3 ~. And, this chapter is a little... off-kilter, but necessary for.. later, we'll say.

**Chapter One**

**A Conscious Attack of Morality**

Repeatedly dropping his forehead against the vending machine outside of the motel room, Jimmy cursed himself under his breath. The action did little to aid his growing headache, but it drove home the idea that he was one gigantic idiot. Of all the stupid things to do... Of all the _stupid, fucked-up_ things to go and fucking _do!_

The night before was still a bit of a blur, for the most part. But, so were the last five or six years, if he was to be perfectly honest. Castiel hadn't left him much to go on when he pulled up stakes and took off for Heaven. Oh, and it was apparently permanent, this time, something else the rotten bastard hadn't bothered to share with him. After all, why let the vessel in on any of the good stuff? Best that Jimmy just have a goddamn fucking _heart attack_ when he wakes up nailing another man to the mattress.

With a final, harsh smack of his head against the hard plastic, Jimmy groaned. He really wished that he could forget about that. Fucking angel and his bright fucking ideas. Why did he have to wait until _that moment_ to give Jimmy his body back, huh? If it was just to have his last, sick kicks at traumatizing all those – and, Jimmy did mean _all those involved –_ he was so going to kick some divine ass when he officially kicked the bucket.

Jimmy growled, his frustrations manifesting, and he hit the vending machine with the heel of his hand. He nearly laughed when a can popped out of the damned thing. He reached down and retrieved the item – a Diet Coke – and shook his head with a long sigh. What a day. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, and it already felt as though he had been sorting himself out for a week.

For the moment, he was thankful that Dean had passed out after their little... _encounter_... It left Jimmy the entire night to sit up and brood, to re-adjust to being back in his own skin, again, before completely freaking the hell out. He'd gone for a twilight walk, hoping to clear his head. Nothing. Stopped off at a local diner, devoured two orders of bacon, eggs, and french toast. Nada. Then, for whatever ungodly reason, Jimmy had returned to the motel room that Dean and Castiel had been sharing. (Though, really, where else was he planning to go in the middle of the night?). He'd found the key in Cast-no, _his trench coat,_ while fishing out a couple of rumpled ten dollar bills, and he tried not to feel like a burglar now, as he finally put the thing to use.

The room was still cloaked in darkness, but Jimmy didn't dare turn on a light. The longer that he could go without waking Dean, the better. If the soft sounds of even breathing were anything to go by, he had nothing to worry about. Yet. He crept over to the table, quiet as a church mouse, setting the can of soda down onto its surface. Another step, and Jimmy was shedding the trench coat, draping it over the back of one of the nearby chairs. He hadn't bothered with his tie when he'd re-dressed, so goodness only knew where it was. Hell, he'd barely managed to remember his pants in the midst of debating with himself over whether to make a break for it and never look back. But, again, where would he go? His options weren't exact what one might call 'wide open'.

Manners still dictated that he leave his shoes by the door, and as he crossed to the bathroom, Jimmy idly wondered how often (if ever) Castiel washed his socks. Nothing smelled off-putting about what he was wearing, miracle of miracles, but the idea that he had been wearing the same get-up every day for, what, the last six years, now, was a little more than he was comfortable with. That, and the wonder of when his skin had last met hot water. The thought was a bit much, prompting him to shut and lock the bathroom door. It was somewhat silly, and Dean still slumbered on the other side of it, sure, but there was no need in leaving anything to chance.

Jimmy unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the closed toilet lid, then shucked off his pants and kicked them to one side. He turned the bath faucet on, tiny droplets of cold water spitting out against his forearm. Stepping back to give the water time to get good and hot, the now-ex-vessel took a moment to survey himself in the mirror. The first thing that he did was to gasp in some mild form of horror; his reflection gave him a clear view of his ribs, skin stretched tight over bone. Poking at himself with disbelief, Jimmy nearly flipped-out, all over again. Had Castiel even _thought_ about feeding him?! It was all fine and dandy if celestial beings didn't need to consume nutrients, but, would a damned banana have hurt him, every now and again?

With a dejected sigh, Jimmy checked the temperature of the bath water, once again. Finding it to be satisfactory (satisfactory, hell, he was downright _craving this_ ), he turned on the shower head and stepped under the spray. Jimmy found himself swallowing back a near-guttural groan as the hot water fell against his shoulders. Every muscle in his body felt so tight, so knotted. The heat slowly began to work that away. It was, in a bad choice of words, heavenly.

Twenty-five minutes later saw the water running cold, and Jimmy forced himself to pull out from beneath it. He turned off the water, grabbed a towel and dried himself off. Securing the towel around his waist, Jimmy surveyed his discarded clothing. There was no point in putting his usual garb back on, prompting him to sneak over to Dean's duffel bag and pilfer a shirt (too wide in the shoulders, but still comfortable), jeans (he'd needed his belt to keep them up), and a pair of socks. He kept glancing back at Dean as he got dressed, silently willing the younger man to stay asleep.

And, it was as he turned to stare at Dean, wrapped up in blankets, honest-to-goodness _cuddling_ a freaking pillow, Jimmy Novak came to the most obvious, hateful realization.

He could have stopped.

Standing at the foot of the bed, the memories were slowly leaking back to him. When Castiel had taken Dean to bed, Jimmy had been vaguely aware of it (a blur, like most other things). Didn't really care, one way or another, but he had known what was going on. If they were finally feeling frisky, who was he to stop them? As if he had a choice in the matter, anyway. He'd long-since learned that him 'voicing' his opinions went over like flatulence in the House of the Lord (damn it, why did his brain still sound like Castiel?!). Didn't amount to anything. And, quite frankly, all of the tension between the hunter and his fine feathered counterpart had been about to give Jimmy a serious headache. So, like so many other things before, the remnant of the vessel had simply tuned it all out. That was, until he couldn't, anymore.

Having cut himself off from Jimmy during the act (as he often did in what he called 'stressful situations'), Castiel gave zero warning that things were about to shift. Before Jimmy had any semblance of 'back in body: check', the man found himself staring down at a flushed and panting Dean Winchester. He was fairly certain that he had checked-out, mentally, for a short moment, before he... Oh, call it adrenaline, call it arousal, call it 'it's been too damned _long',_ for all Jimmy cared, because the fact of the matter was that _he had kept going._ He hadn't recoiled in horror, much as he felt like he wanted to. He hadn't stopped with kissing Dean long enough to say, "Hey, by the way, Castiel isn't in, anymore". Nope, he'd bit his lip to stifle a groan, hooked one arm under the younger man's knee, and proceeded to make him cry out for a supreme being that neither of them had any faith left in.

Groaning, Jimmy face-palmed with both hands. Oh, _fuck_ , did he feel like a complete schmuck. And, poor Dean... Dean didn't know that Castiel was even _gone._ That was going to be something fun to try and explain, whenever the other decided to regain consciousness. Thankfully, Jimmy could probably cover, say that he woke up... _somewhere,_ with no memory of it, of the hows and whys and whens. Hell, it had worked once before. The odds had to have been in his favour for a successful repeat performance.

Carefully cracking open the nearly-forgotten can of soda, Jimmy took a swig, swallowed, and breathed out a heavy sigh. He was fairly certain that he would soon get to test that theory.

 

...

Dean was in no mood to be fucking around once the morning light shifted high enough to hit him square in the face. There was a reason why he always took the far bed, damn it. Cracking open one bleary eye, Dean surveyed his surroundings. Standard motel room, standard, ugly-ass curtains. Bad stains on the carpet, and two empty bottles of Jose Cuervo by the bedside. He'd been sharing those with Sam and Castiel, the night before. He grinned at the memory of Cas, knocking back shot after shot, keeping pace with the brothers. Damn, Cas.

He groaned, more of the previous night slowly floating back to him. It was a fuzzy memory, at best, but it was still there. Dean couldn't recall the specifics of what had started it, but somewhere between the 'I'll miss you's and the parting hug, it had become obvious that they'd needed something else, something more. A deeper goodbye was necessary, and they had agreed to it in a silent stare. Hands had been everywhere, kisses shared with a generous urgency, while clothes piled up beside the bed. There had been heat, and friction, and _power,_ the results of all three of which Dean could still feel coursing through his lower body. It was worth it, though, to be so close to someone that he held so dear, even if only for just one brief encounter.

" _Damn, Cas._ " Rubbing his hands over his eyes, Dean tried to fight the fuzziness in his brain. He knew that Castiel was gone, but that still didn't stop him from reaching across to the other side of the queen-sized bed, hoping. It was pointless that he ever did such a silly thing as hope, since it just lead to heartache that he wouldn't admit to. When his hand met with nothing but cold sheets, Dean sighed, disappointed. He immediately tried to tell himself, he had better things to do than worry about what was no longer there. Those were the things that he tucked away for a rainy day, and, as Mother Nature had so kindly seen to inform him, today was all sunshine and hangovers.

Either way, it was time to get up, and Dean knew it. Sam was probably already out of bed, showered and dressed, with a case in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Not that Dean honestly expected his little brother to be up-to-task, try as he might (and would), especially since said little brother had been hitting one of those bottles of Jose, solo, the night before. Sammy had been on a bit of a bender since the whole Gates of Hell incident, and no one – Dean included - was quite stupid enough to ask why. The guy had done the impossible, got all the demons back where they belonged, and somehow managed to make it out with his ass in one piece. So, if that meant that Sam wanted to spend a couple of weeks in the bottle, and wake up with his eyes resembling two perpetual piss holes in a snow bank, well, then, so be it. So far as Dean was concerned, he had earned it, no questions asked.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn't the only one who would be regretting his liquid indulgence. The elder Winchester sat himself up a little too fast, his stomach knotting in a way that clearly screamed, 'Toilet. Now.' Dean groaned and gagged all the way to the bathroom, dropping to his knees and leaving an offering to the porcelain god the second that it was within reach. Son of a bitch, he needed to quit drinking. Not that it was going to happen, but, he knew he really needed to give it a try, nonetheless. If for no other reason, than for the sake of his liver. Poor bastard. Dean had to salute the organ for hanging on as long as it had.

Dean cleaned up, washed his face, and attempted to brush his teeth. Two strokes in, he was gagging into the sink so hard that he ended up forgoing it, all together, settling instead for swishing some mouthwash. He wasn't going to push it, not today. With the way that his head was pounding, and his eyes were still watering, Dean was fairly certain that he was paying for something. What, he wasn't sure, yet. Defiling an angel, possibly. Probably. Like it mattered, either way. Cas was long gone, if the empty bed and even emptier hotel room was to be of any indication. Bastard hadn't even left a note. Dean scoffed. Typical. Yet, it was somehow amusing. How many times had he been the love-'em-and-leave-'em type? Now, it seemed as though the tables had been turned. At least he'd had some manner of warning, however.

" _You're leaving?" Dean asked over the third round of shots. "Like, for good? Really?"_

_Castiel took in a slow breath, and Dean found himself holding his own. The angel's answer was both anticipated and feared. He could live and die by one word. To his own horror, that one word was a firm, almost-excited "Yes."_

_They stared at one another for a moment, before Dean, in classic form, shrugged. He hid his pain, knocking it back with his next shot and swallowing it down with a harsh burn. His final response on the matter was a simple, gasped-out, "All right."_

Spacing out in front of the bathroom mirror, Dean sighed at himself. Really, though, what could he have said to that? There was no changing Castiel's mind, and if he wanted to return to Heaven, then Dean was hardly able to put together a reason enough to stop him. After all, what did Dean have to offer to a Warrior of God? A tiny room in their little makeshift Batcave, and slower-than-flight rides around the country in a beat-up old Chevy? A busted-up body, half a heart, and no hope? Sure, that sounded like a grand prize if Dean had ever heard of one. It was such a shocker that Castiel hadn't just signed right up for that. Dean knew that his best friend was better off in Heaven, anyhow. (" _There's no place like home," he quoted, somewhere during round five)._ And, even though it was going to leave Dean even more of a mess than he cared to admit, the younger had done what he had to do. He loved Castiel. He let him go.

Damn it, Dean had told himself that he wasn't going to worry about this, anymore. Out of sight, out of sorry fucking mind. Loved the guy, or no, there was no reason to dwell on the things that he couldn't ever hope to change. There was still other shit to do, and, like it or not, life was going to go on. Dean was just going to have to suck it up and do the same.

Once sufficiently showered, shaved, and freshly-dressed, Dean tugged on his jacket, and made his way out the door. He walked over to the next room, knocking on the door and waiting for Sammy to answer. The air was chilly, a light wind nipping against the man's face with an unforgiving bite. Apparently, the earlier sunshine had been deceptive, the sky having tinged-over with gray while he was in the shower. Speaking of, it smelled like rain was on the way. Ah, the wonders of Nature, the rotten whore.

The lock clicked, pulling Dean's attention back to the door, as it slid open to reveal a Sam that the older hunter was growing accustomed to seeing. His little brother needed a shave, and a few more hours of sleep. A few aspirin, maybe. As expected, there was a cheap-looking cup of coffee in Sam's hand, the aroma drifting through to Dean's senses a little dose of Heaven on Earth. He hoped that Sam had made his purchase for two.

"Hey," the taller man greeted, stepping back to allow his brother in to the motel room. "I thought I was gonna' have to go drag you outta' bed."

Dean grinned. "What can I say? I like my four hours, every now and then." Neither made mention of the fact that Dean had been locked away for, oh, about twice as long as that. This was partly due to the fact that it was no longer of importance. The rest was that, as he stepped into the room and had a look around, Dean suddenly found it hard to speak.

Across the room, seated at the small table in the corner, was... Was...

"Cas?"

Blue eyes looked up, and Dean felt his stomach drop. Those eyes, while familiar, were missing something, something vitally important.

"Good morning, Dean," Jimmy nodded, quickly returning his attentions to the morning paper. The look on Dean's face clearly said that he had it all figured out. He was a smart boy, after all. "I brought you back a coffee, too." He gestured toward the paper cup carrier nearer to the edge of the table, a coffee cup already in his own hand. "Cream and sugar are in the holder."

Coffee was suddenly the last thing on Dean's mind. "We thought you were..." He bit his lip, a little.

"Dead?" Jimmy supplied, eyes returning to the brothers before him. He set aside the newspaper, and took a sip of his coffee. He fought a grimace, noting that the liquid was cooling a little too quickly for his liking. "Believe me, I don't blame you."

"It seems that, when Cas left, Jimmy was returned to his own body." Leave it to Sam to play Captain Obvious. Dean nearly rolled his eyes. "Which you would _know about,_ already, if you hadn't-"

"Slept, all day. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Sammy, I get the picture." He cut his brother a sharp glare, before looking back to Jimmy. "How long you been... Y'know... _You?_ "

Jimmy sighed, cheeks puffing up with escaping air. "I'm not really sure... But, I came to about..." He checked the alarm clock at Sam's bedside. "Five? Maybe? I don't really remember. I wandered for a bit, before I got here."

Dean, finally having been reaching for that coffee, stopped. "This hasn't been here since then, has it?"

With a little smile, Jimmy shook his head. "No, I went out for that about twenty minutes ago." He chuckled. "If you hurry, it might still burn your throat, a little bit."

Retrieving the cup, Dean eased the cover off before taking a few gulps. He tried not to think about what Jimmy had told him, but it was hard. _Five o'clock,_ he mused. That wasn't long after he and Castiel had finished... Well... It wasn't as if that mattered, anymore. Still stung like a bitch, though, knowing that Castiel hadn't stuck around. "Thanks, Jimmy. For the coffee."

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, no problem."

A less-than-comfortable silence befell the three men, then. Dean was shifting somewhat nervously from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at Jimmy. Jimmy simply stuck his nose back in that newspaper, ignoring all else, save for his coffee. Sam just wanted to go back to sleep.

"We got a case?" Dean asked, at long-last. Behind him, Sam groaned, tipping back his cup and swallowing down the last of his own drink. Apparently, hunting wasn't very high-up on his list of things to do, this decade. Not that Dean truly blamed him for that, of course.

"All's quiet, locally," Jimmy piped up, turning a single black-and-white page. "Looks like you guys have been getting the job done, right." Dean tried not to be offended by the surprise in the other man's voice as he said so.

Sam grumbled out a miserable, "Our pleasure," tossing his trash in the garbage can by the door. He turned around, and allowed himself to fall face-down on the bed. Dean watched his brother in amusement. He was so getting what he deserved.

"Hey, I've got an idea," he nearly shouted, with a broad grin. Jimmy looked up, curious. "How about we all go get ourselves a nice, greasy breakfast? My treat."

Sam was in the bathroom, door closed, and retching into the toilet in less than five seconds.


	2. Joker on Jack

It wasn't often that Sam opted for the back seat. Usually, it took a severe injury or the serious need for post-case sleep to make him give up shotgun. So, when he surrendered and climbed into the back, stretching himself out across the seats (still coming up short on room) with his head pillowed by his duffel bag, Dean couldn't help but frown with concern.

"You all right, man?" All that he got in return was an irritated jumble of words. Rolling his eyes at last, Dean closed the door, looking over the roof of the car at Jimmy. "Guess you get shotgun," he shrugged, swiftly depositing himself into the driver's seat. Jimmy slid in beside him, and the Impala was on the road a few short seconds later.

Another hour found Dean and Jimmy opting for silence, save for Sam's light snoring drifting up from the back. The radio wasn't even on, Dean not feeling the need to be ass enough to risk waking his brother. All the kid did lately was sleep, in between drinking and consuming enough food to make himself sick. Contrary to what he had been telling himself, even just as recently as that very morning, Dean knew that there was cause for alarm in this behavior. When they stopped off at the next motel – or, got back home, whichever came first – they were going to have to have a little heart-to-heart on the matter. That was so going to go over like a pregnant nun.

They stopped for gas and snacks at the next convenience store. Dean debated whether to lock his brother in while he and Jimmy were out of the car, but ultimately decided against it. Jimmy waltzed out of the store five minutes later, arms loaded with two paper bags of junk food and sugary drinks. Dean was just finishing pumping the gas. He raised an eyebrow, to which Jimmy merely shrugged.

"There's a couple of protein bars in here for him," he answered the unasked question, nodding his head toward Sam's unconscious form. "And, two bottles of water. I didn't think he'd appreciate Devil Dogs and Mountain Dew."

Dean had to chuckle his agreement to that, filling up Baby's tank and heading inside to pay. Jimmy climbed back into the car, and Dean paused at the door to glance back over his shoulder. His personal level of weird with this situation was far higher than he liked. There was a limit to just how cool he could act with Jimmy around him, and he found himself reaching that cut-off point rather quickly. Dean had a million questions, but he knew better than to voice them. After all, Jimmy hadn't remembered anything the last time, right? The odds that he might recall anything of any use to them were slim-to-none.

The girl behind the counter rang up his purchase (he'd added a pack of gum) with a bored indifference. Dean paid the total and made his exit, in no great hurry to return to the car – well, to the company inside of it, anyhow. He knew that it was hopelessly chick-like, but it hadn't been easy for him to sit next to Castiel's vessel for the last few hours as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Sure, Jimmy was a nice enough guy, but, really? Dean couldn't just open up and talk to him like he could Cas. He would admit, if only to himself, that he missed his angel more and more with every mile that passed under Baby's tires. His best friend was gone – the proof was in the next seat – and he was going to have to get used to that. But, surely, Jimmy wasn't going to stick around. Once he was gone, back off to Pontiac, things would get easier. When Dean didn't have to look him, anymore...

"Here," Jimmy had called over to Dean, once they were back on the road. "They had these in there." He thrust a small package Dean's way, and the younger man took it hesitantly. "I was looking for pie, but, those were all I found."

Dean turned the wrapper over in his hand, grinning himself into a little laugh as he read the words printed on the front. It was a Little Debbie Apple Pie, the wrapper proclaiming its 'Real Fruit Filling'. "Shelf apple pie," he mused, keeping one wrist on the steering wheel as he tore into the paper. "I guess pie with extra preservatives isn't bad, in a pinch."

Next to him, Jimmy nodded, mouth full of what appeared to be a glazed honey bun. "Mm-hm. And! If you like it, there's a couple more in here. They had cherry and blueberry, too, and I wasn't sure which one you'd want."

That stopped Dean, mid-bite. He was a little surprised that Jimmy had put any thought into it. Sammy was in the habit of just grabbing whatever was on the shelf, knowing that _one of them_ was sure to eat it. Finally biting into his treat, he smiled. "Thanks, Jimmy," he replied through his chewing. "I appreciate it... How'd you know about the pie thing, though? Lucky guess?" Dean regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. There was only one way that Jimmy would know-

"Castiel, I think."

And, there it was. Suddenly very disinterested in the food in his mouth, Dean swallowed, hard, and dropped the pie into his lap. "What's for drinks?" he asked, wanting to wash down the bitter taste that was suddenly filling his mouth. Jimmy rustled around in the paper bags at his feet, soon producing two bottles.

"Mountain Dew, or Sunkist?" Dean shot him a look, and Jimmy rolled his eyes. "Hey, I'm not a mind reader. Which do you want?"

Reaching out his hand, Dean snagged the Mountain Dew. If he wanted citrus, he'd have it at breakfast, in the form of orange juice, thank you, very much. Jimmy cracked into the Sunkist, then, seeming to have no problems with the nasty taste. Dean shook his head. Peculiar.

"Hey, by the way, I'm sorry about this morning." Dean all but froze, completely, glancing over at Jimmy with just his eyes. "You looked like you were about to have a heart attack, when you saw me..." Jimmy looked over at Dean, and frowned. "Kind of like you do, right now..."

Clearing his throat, Dean forced himself to loosen back up. Eyes on the road, that's a good driver. "Yeah, well..." This wasn't a conversation that he really wanted to have, especially not right now. "I thought he'd, y'know, maybe changed his mind. About leaving."

Jimmy blinked, eyes wide. "So, you knew?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he told me, last night, over a couple of shots." He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers settling over his mouth, pulling at his bottom lip in irritation. "Sorry, by the way, if you're feelin' a little lopsided, or whatever. Hungover. We were hittin' it, pretty good. The booze, I mean."

"I know," Jimmy replied, blandly. "I saw the empty tequila bottles on the floor."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "When were you in my room?"

Pausing to assess damage control, Jimmy took another swig of his soda. "The key was in the trench coat. I found it while I was walking." That hadn't been a complete lie, but he was about to test the acting skills he hadn't used since college. "I read the name of the hotel on the tag." He shrugged. "Figured you might be there. And, when you _were,_ I just-"

"Hopped in, and stole my clothes." It wasn't a question, nor was it particularly accusatory. Still, the edges of Jimmy's ears flushed a bright pink. "I was actually wondering where that shirt was, this morning." Dean held up a hand when Jimmy looked about ready to apologize. "Don't worry about it. A guy's gotta' change his clothes, every once in a while."

Jimmy nodded. "Yes, I... I didn't feel comfortable staying in that suit, anymore..." His tone reeked of apology, and he knew it. But with Castiel... _gone,_ gone, it didn't seem like a wise idea, anymore.

Taking a long swallow of his own drink, Dean was secretly thankful for the same reason. If he was having this much trouble with the idea of Castiel being gone, he didn't want to even _think_ about how he would be if Jimmy was still wearing the trench coat.

"Where are we headed?" Jimmy asked, plunging back into his honey bun.

"Kansas," Dean answered, shifting around in his seat. Normally, he could get comfortable enough for a long drive. Today was proving, quite literally, to be a pain in the backside. "From there, we'll get you back home." Jimmy choked at that, causing Dean to steer himself a bit off the road, in concern. "You okay?" he asked, eyes darting between Jimmy and the road ahead, once he was safely back on it.

" _Home?_ " Jimmy coughed out, eyes watering at the unexpected occurrence. Like the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"Yeah, you know, where the buffalo roam." Dean shook his head. Stupid thing to say. "Pontiac, right? Your wife and kid."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, Ames and Claire." Jimmy nodded, once his breathing was back under control. "I'd, uh... I'd prefer to call them, first?"

Dean shrugged. "Sure, whatever." It was Jimmy's family. However he wanted to handle it, that was all his business. He glanced over at the other man, who was now pointedly looking out the passenger side window in silence. Honestly enough, Dean was getting tired of uncomfortable silences. Flicking his eyes to the rear-view mirror, he only had to confirm that Sammy was still, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world before reaching forward and flicking on the radio. The comforting sounds of AC/DC soon filtered through the air.

_Feel it when I turn the screw. Kick you 'round the world, there ain't a thing that it can't do. Do to you, yeah._

Dean had his second near-heart attack of the day when Jimmy began tapping his fingers against his soda bottle to the beat, and quietly singing along with the lyrics.

...

Sam slept the bulk of the way back to Kansas, for what he could ignore of his brother and Jimmy arguing in the front over who was the better front man for AC/DC. Dean was hell-bent on it being Brian Johnson, while Jimmy was trying to point out the good that came from both Johnson _and_ Bon Scott. So far as Sam was concerned, there wasn't exactly a difference. It was all dated music, and all _four_ of them could just _screw off –_ may Bon Scott have continued to rest in peace – so that he could get some more fucking sleep!

"I don't see how you think that _anything_ stands up to _Back In Black_ ," Dean argued, amiably, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him. This was the kind of conversation he hadn't had since... Hell, since he'd been with Lisa. When he and Ben could be out in the garage, tinkering with something-or-other, listening to tunes and chatting about the good ol' days of music that, quite frankly, neither of them were quite old enough to remember, properly. Fuck, he missed those days.

Jimmy was looking at him over the top of the Impala, by this point, as if he had lost his ever-loving mind. "Ah, hello? _Highway to Hell?_ The title track, _alone-_ "

"Yeah, of course, you pull the _Highway_ card," he teased, smugly. Oh, this was fun, especially the way that Jimmy narrowed his eyes.

" _High Voltage. Dirty Deeds Done Dirty Cheap. Let There Be Rock-_ "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know 'em all. Get to your point."

"Point is, your argument doesn't hold water." Jimmy waited for Dean to pop the trunk, reaching inside to help unload the hunters' belongings. " They were all great albums. Same success as _Back In Black?_ No, but, what followed in the Brian Johnson years weren't all cream-of-the-crop records." Dean scoffed, and shook his head. Jimmy stared at him, incredulous. "You can't tell me that every album after _Back In Black_ was pure gold."

"Oh, yeah? You name me just _one_ that _wasn't._ "

"Four words," Jimmy replied to the challenge, holding up four fingers, bending each one in-turn with his next words. " _Flick-of-the-Switch._ " He eyed Dean for another moment, giving him time to assess the response. Dean looked uncomfortable with the idea for a moment, before he shrugged.

"Band problems," he tossed out. "Phil Rudd was on his way out."

"Ha! Cheap excuse," Jimmy dismissed, making sure that the trunk was empty of bags and all manner of limbs were out of the way before slamming it closed. "Lots of bands have internal problems, and they keep going strong, even when they lose a member." He picked up the duffel bag that he had set by his feet, and waited to follow Dean inside. The younger man slung a bag over his own shoulder, and scoffed.

"Tell that to Def Leppard."

Jimmy's eyes widened. "Ohhh, no. Don't you even get me _started_ on Def Leppard."

Apparently forgotten in the back seat, Sam whined, low and irritated. Jimmy couldn't go back to Pontiac soon enough for his likings. This was a kind of torture that he did _not deserve._

...

Dean had given Jimmy one of the rooms down the hall from his own, bringing him in a couple of towels and a change of clothes in case he wanted a shower. He'd already taken Jimmy on the grand tour, before leaving him to get settled in, promises of dinner following him back into the hallway. Dean had it in his mind that a couple of steaks were in order, an idea that his stomach was all-too-happy to agree upon. He wondered if maybe he ought to measure out some embalming fluid for Sam, who had excused himself for a shower and bed the minute that he had lumbered through the front door. He hadn't even bothered to hide the decanter of near-ancient scotch he'd grabbed from the library on his way through. Dean frowned. Much longer on this liquid diet, and the embalming fluid joke would likely become a reality.

Dinner was an easy affair, Dean handling taking a meal with Castiel's ex-vessel a lot better than he had expected himself to. They'd spent the first hour or so going over the happenings of the last few months, Dean telling Jimmy all about how they had come to acquire the Batcave, about Henry and Abaddon and the Men of Letters. The remnants of Jimmy's potatoes had long-since gone cold by the time that Dean was finished with his story, and he stood to deposit them in the trash receptacle. Once the table was cleared, Dean suggested a game of cards and dessert. Jimmy broke out the rest of the junk food with a grin, and the two settled down to a game of rummy.

"Where did you learn to cook like that?" Jimmy asked, half-way through the first hand. He lay down three sixes, and discarded a four.

Across the table, Dean grinned. "You sound skeptical," he observed, deciding upon his next move. He tapped his fingers atop his cards, eying the discard pile from around his legs, which were currently propped up on the corner of the table. Jimmy hadn't complained, so Dean kept them there. Leaning forward, he picked up Jimmy's four, adding it to a two-three-four of hearts sequence.

Jimmy chuckled. "A little bit, at first, yeah," he admitted. "But, it was good. Thank you, once again."

"Oh, yeah, no problem. And, thanks. But, to answer your question, I taught-Pay attention," he interrupted himself, reaching across and stealing the Jack of Clubs that Jimmy had just discarded. He lay it down atop his own matching ten, and continued. "I taught myself how to cook, mostly. Between lookin' after Sammy, and bein' with Lisa, I picked up a few things."

"You miss that?" Jimmy asked, picking a pretzel out of the open bag between them and taking a bite from it. "Being a family man?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Sometimes. It's not as bad as it used to be, though. I mean, I was a _mess_ for a little while, always worrying."

"Well, I hear that time heals all things." He smiled at Dean, then, their eyes meeting in an intense but unspoken way. A way that conveyed a certain measure of, _I understand._

Quickly clearing his throat, Dean glanced back to his cards. He drew one off the deck, and sighed. "What about you?" Jimmy looked up, head tilted to the side. Dean held back a flinch. Too familiar, and he chose to ignore it. "You gonna' call your wife, or what?"

There was a moment of hesitation, and Dean immediately felt a little bad. He had wanted to shift the focus off of himself, if only to get Jimmy to stop _looking at_ him like that. He hadn't meant to hit a touchy subject.

"In the morning," Jimmy said, at last. "It's late, and... If I'm gonna' ruin her day, I'd rather she get a good night's sleep, first." He bit his lip, thinking about that a little bit more than he liked to. There were a few things that he had to sort out upstairs, before he could even _think_ about calling Amelia. It had been six years, for Heaven's sake. Part of him hoped that she and Claire had moved on, that they weren't still waiting around on him, heartbroken. The rest of him wanted to stab that first part to a bloody end, selfishly wanting them to welcome him back with open arms.

Dean had nothing to counter that with, and continued the game with a dramatic shift of conversation. He began to regale Jimmy with tales of the Trials, of how he and Sam and Castiel had struggled – and, in Sammy's case, were still struggling – to close the Gates of Hell. Jimmy listened with a little smile on his face for their triumph, joking at the end about how he had nothing that could top that. Chit-chat turned to the books in the library, the weather... Anything to keep out of Dangerous Territory. Hours slipped by, alcohol and snacks magically coming up missing before either man was aware of it. It was quiet, familiar, and that was... nice.

The third game was ended at a predetermined amount of points (fifteen hundred, which Dean gloated over having hit first), and Jimmy packed up the cards. Trash was cleared off the table, and the two tired men bid one another a good night. Jimmy disappeared into his borrowed room, Dean watching him with a small smile on his face. The guy wasn't so bad, really, when Dean was able to look passed the bullshit he kept weighing against him. It wasn't fair of him, but Dean knew that it was going to take time. Forgive and forget were two things that he had yet to master.

Shaking his head, Dean continued on to the next room of interest. He put his hand to the knob, turning it quietly and pushing the door open with great care. There was a faint glow of light coming from the bedside lamp, spilling over the night table and onto the unconscious form of his little brother. Dean sighed through his nose, crossing the room to right the decanter that had tipped over, too empty for any of the alcohol left inside of it to have spilled onto the carpet.

"Sammy, what am I gonna' do with you?" he murmured, taking a careful seat on the edge of the bed. Sam had one arm over the side of the mattress, fingers barely missing the floor, below. His cheek was squished against the mattress, head nowhere near a pillow. Reaching out, Dean brushed a bit of hair from Sam's face, tucking it back behind his ear. There was so much he wanted to talk to his brother about, so much that they needed to work out, not just between themselves, but for each other. These last few weeks, he'd had so many chances to talk, to let Sammy know, but... Well, knowing that every word out of his mouth was going to be lost to the booze going into Sam's, it had kind of put a damper on trying.

Leaning over, Dean pressed a kiss to the younger man's forehead. Sam's stale breath saddened him, and he smoothed a hand over his brother's soft, clean hair. "Goodnight, Sammy." Standing up, Dean pulled a light blanket up and over Sam. Finally, he reached over to click off the lamp, before making his exit. The latch closed with a soft _click,_ and Dean dropped his forehead against the door. He leaned there for a moment, eyes closed. In the morning, he promised himself, they would talk in the morning. It had to stop.

Turning away, Dean proceeded to his own bedroom, not bothering to change out of his clothes before he climbed on top of the covers. He didn't go right to sleep, instead running through all of the things that he wanted to say to his brother in the light of the morning.


	3. Calliope Crashed to the Ground

Chapter Three

Calliope Crashed to the Ground

 

Dean had agreed, the previous evening, to take Jimmy back to Pontiac whenever he was ready. It was a long drive, sure, but Jimmy wouldn't let him pay for a bus ticket, and Dean wasn't about to see the other man hitch his way back to Illinois. Besides, if he left Sammy back at the Batcave to research, or, you know, outright _pickle himself,_ it would give Dean a while of solo driving. It would be a good chance to sort a few things out, and clear his head. There was no arguing that he need a little time for both.

Jimmy was up and out of bed about a half hour after Dean, and together the two of them began to pull together a quick – but satisfying – breakfast for three. Dean turned on Sam's new CD player, swapping out the garbage inside for something _good,_ and began raiding the refrigerator. He pointed Jimmy in the general direction of the pots and pans, and the older man started getting everything in order. Dean couldn't explain it, the ease that seemed to come with having Jimmy at the next burner, but he certainly didn't complain.

Half an hour later, eggs were scrambled and pancakes were flipped and piled into lopsided little stacks. There was syrup on the table, right beside the ketchup (for Dean's eggs, which nearly had Jimmy gagging). All that was missing was Sam, who had wandered into the kitchen for a cup of coffee about two seconds prior. He looked like hell, Dean noted, but at least he had slept. Sam was still in his night clothes, which everyone chose to overlook. Breakfast wasn't meant to be a formal affair, after all.

“Help yourself to a plate, Sammy,” Dean had greeted him, sliding an empty plate in front of him when he sat down. Sam eyed the empty piece of china like it had personally offended him. “Come on, Sam. You've gotta' eat something, man.”

“M'not hungry,” he grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing when it burned his lips and tongue. Dean rolled his eyes skyward, while Jimmy finished his pancake in relative silence. Sam looked like he could barely keep his bleary eyes open. All in all, it was just the family breakfast that Dean had always wanted.

Sensing the tension between the brothers (really, how could he not?), Jimmy set down his fork. “Um, may I use your phone, Dean?” he asked. “I'd... I'd like to call Amelia, now.”

Dean glanced up, nodding. “Yeah, sure. It's in my room, on top of the dresser.”

“Thank you. Excuse me.” Jimmy stood from the table, then, and exited the kitchen. His departure barely phased Sam, while Dean seized the opportunity to spew off what he had been rehearsing in his head for hours.

“Sammy, we've gotta' talk.”

Tossing his head back, Sam groaned. “Can't it wait, Dean? I'm not really in the mood to-”

“Yeah, I know it,” Dean snapped. “You're not in the mood for much, lately.”

Sam scowled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn-well what it means.” Rising from his own seat, Dean started clearing away the table. It kept his hands busy, ensuring that he wouldn't be reaching across the table to strangle his brother any time soon. “Now, far be it from me to be a hypocrite-” Sam scoffed, and Dean ignored it, “but, don't you think it's time you lay off the booze, a bit?”

“Are you trying to tell me that I have a _drinking problem,_ Dean?” Sam's tone was somewhat daring. “ _Me?_ ”

To that, Dean sighed. This wasn't how he'd rehearsed it. In his version, Sam already knew that he had a problem, accepted it, and vowed to take a step back. “Sammy, at the rate you're going, you're gonna' make one of _Cas' benders_ look like a social hour.”

Sam snorted. “I'm fine, Dean,” he replied, moving to get up. As if he had just ended the conversation there.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his hips back against the counter. “What happened to that scotch, last night, then?” Sam stopped, his back to Dean. The older man knew that he was entering into some of that Dangerous Territory, but he had no choice. “Did it just _magically disappear,_ Sammy?” He watched his brother's tense stance, observing as he curled his fingers into fists, clenching them together so tightly that his knuckles cracked. Again, Dean sighed. “Look, Sam, I'm not trying to-”

“ _Fuck off, Dean._ ”

Dean's eyebrows jumped. “Excuse me?” he asked, needlessly. He knew that he had heard correctly, but the words still surprised him.

“I said, _fuck off,_ ” Sam growled, not bothering to turn around. “You're not my _mother,_ Dean. You're not my _father,_ and you're not my _boss._ So, leave me _alone._ ”

“Hey, yeah, you know what? I may not be any of that, but, what I _am_ is your _Brother-_ ”

“Then, stay the hell out of it!” Sam shouted, turning himself around at last. The look on his face was angry, but pleading, begging his brother to just _leave it alone._ “I'm an adult, Dean! I can handle myself! So, please, be a _good_ brother, for once in your fucking life, and _leave me the hell alone!_ ”

Sam was out of the room before Dean could respond. Not that there were going to be any words coming out of Dean's mouth, but... He didn't know what to think about that. A good brother? Hadn't he spent the last thirty-some-odd years being just that? Sammy didn't think so, huh. Well...

There was little time for Dean to dwell on that, as Jimmy slowly made his way back into the room. Shit, had he heard that? Turning around, Dean cleared his throat, and busied himself with dusting some loose pancake mix off of the counter top. “Ah, did you get hold of your wife?”

Jimmy was silent, and for a moment Dean thought that he was going to question what had happened. “No, I didn't,” he replied, setting Dean's cell phone down on the table top. “I did, however, talk to her housekeeper.” He paused, then, and smirked. “I can't believe she got a housekeeper. But, I guess she's out of town until Thursday.”

Dean nodded. Today was Saturday. “Great. I'll make sure you're back for then, then.”

“Look, Dean,” Jimmy began, somewhat hesitantly. “Like I already told you, I can get myself back home, just fine.”

“Nope,” Dean responded, turning a half-hearted grin at the other man. “I already told ya', we're good. You're either letting me buy you a bus ticket, or I'm driving your ass, myself.”

Jimmy seemed to flounder for a moment over what to say, before just closing his mouth, and nodding. “Let me know when to be ready.”

* * *

Sam didn't show his face for the next eight hours, for which Dean was grateful. If his brother was within arms reach, Dean was fairly certain that he would either hug him with an apology, or deck him with a string of colourful curse words. Neither was what he wanted, that was for certain, so it was best that they kept their distance.

Speaking of distance, Dean had to commend himself for his improving attitude toward Jimmy. With little space to run to (and, hiding out in his bedroom? So chick-like, and not happening), the two had been around one another nearly the entire day. With a bowl of microwave popcorn and a recently-purchased DVD player, the afternoon had disappeared in a haze of old action movies and bad jokes. It was... nice. Amiable. Comfortable. Just like breakfast.

Knowing that it wasn't Castiel behind the blue eyes that kept turning his way, nor behind the lips that curved into wicked smiles over their shared words, had been easier to handle than Dean had first expected. A little under thirty-six hours ago, he had been praying for Jimmy to go back home, to leave Dean to wallow in his self-pity and mourn the loss of his best friend. To drink himself into a stupor identical to that of his brother.

Thank – well, God was a bit of a stretch, but, thank whatever Divine Force had left Jimmy with him for a little while. Dean was pretty sure it was helping him to reconcile, and ease the hurt.

“Aw, man,” Dean gasped, still laughing over their last source of amusement. “Oh, what next?” Leaning forward, he rifled through the DVDs scattered across the floor. They had been in a neat little stack, once, until Jimmy had got up to use the bathroom, and smacked them with his foot. Hell forbid if Sam walked in to see the disarray. Who the hell wanted to be bothered with picking up after himself? It was Dean's home, and if he wanted to leave something laying around for a minute or two (or twenty) then so be it. (Really, it was kind of driving him bonkers, but he was too damned comfortable to move. Damn laziness). “How about this one?” he asked, holding up a copy of _Die Hard._

Jimmy made an 'eh' face. “Really? It's a bit played-out, don't you think?”

To that, Dean scoffed. “Dude. It's a classic.”

“Classic, hell. It's on cable almost every other night.” Jimmy tipped his beer back, swallowing down the last of the liquid in the bottle. He was either oblivious to Dean watching him, or was simply ignoring the downright evil look that was sent his way.

“Okay, fine, then, Cable Master. _You_ pick something.”

Jimmy only shrugged, eyes back on the television screen as it rolled through the credits of _Red Dawn._ “Doesn't matter to me. I'm pretty sure you don't have _The Boondock Saints_ in there.”

“What makes you think that?” Dean asked, curious.

“You don't seem like the type.”

A chuckle came from Dean's throat, then. “Yeah, you're right,” he admitted, amused. “I never really got into that. Kinda' boring. I felt like I spent the whole movie _waiting_ for something to happen.”

Blue eyes finally turned on Dean, blinking twice in surprise. “ _A lot_ happened in that movie, Dean.”

It was then Dean's turn to shrug. “I dunno'. I guess that, when you live life-or-death on a fairly steady basis, the facsimile of vigilantism is harder to swallow.” Taking a pull off his own beer, Dean sighed. It took a moment for him to realize that Jimmy was giving him an odd look. “What? I'm a drop-out. I'm not illiterate.” Jimmy merely smiled, and shook his head, saying nothing else on the matter. In a small way, Dean was grateful for that. Sure, other things had been more important to him than school during his teenage years (classic cars, pretty girls, the family business), but that didn't mean that he hadn't picked up a book or a newspaper for recreational purposes in the last two decades.

Of course, the only person who seemed to understand that was seated next to him. At the very least, Jimmy apparently accepted it for what it was. Sam had this nasty habit of rolling his eyes whenever his older brother's intelligence came into question, an expression crossing his face that clearly read, “He gets by.” John, hell... John hadn't had two shits to give about the square root of a hypotenuse. If it couldn't help him put down a big 'n bad, it had no place in dinnertime conversation. Even Cas'd had a look for him, one that just about screamed, 'It's okay, Dean. I know you tried.' Granted, Dean knew he was no Einstein, so he went along with it, rolled with the punches. But, after a while – and, he would never admit to this – it kind of hurt. It was nice, even if only for this one, solitary time, that someone was willing to concede that he had a fucking brain.

That was kind of the funny thing about Jimmy, actually, as Dean was beginning to realize. He was a pretty accepting fellow for someone who had once bitched about having been beat all to Hell, and back again, and proclaiming himself _done_ with his duties as an angelic vessel. Not that Dean was about to hold that against him. The guy had all the right in the damned world to fall of the celestial grid if he wanted to. In just a few short days, Jimmy would be back in Illinois, back to his safe, quiet little life as Mister Novak, loving husband and father. Dean smiled, a little, at the thought. Jimmy would go home, back to his family. He would be happy. Just like Cas.

Something clenched, rather uncomfortably, in Dean's gut. What he had been avoiding for the last day and a half was suddenly staring him in the face. Cas was gone. Fucking _gone,_ and, in just a while longer, he was going to lose Jimmy, too. (That was a strange consideration, in and of itself, but he just chalked it up to familiarity of appearances). There would be no more of those blue eyes to watch over him. There wouldn't be another honest, care-free smile turned in his direction. God, he loved those smiles.

Taking a quick breath, Dean glanced to his right. Against his better judgment, his eyes followed along the curve of Jimmy's lips, and across his cheek as he turned his head. The older man had leaned forward, fingers picking through the collection of movies with interest. He had no clue that Dean was once again watching him. And, damn it, that was a good thing. The hunter's imagination was taking the pole position, ready to run away with him at the first wave of the checkered flag. There was no denying that Jimmy was a good-looking man. Dean had been taken with the vessel's appearance for quite some time. There was a bit of stubble about Jimmy's jawline, the product of the last two days without a shave. Dean found himself reliving the feeling of the mentioned roughness dragging over his own skin, scraping against his cheeks and chin as Cas had kissed him. The memory of warm breath, and of strong hands, of-

 _Jesus Christ,_ there was definitely a line between 'Okay Thoughts' and 'Bad Thoughts', and Dean had just steered straight across the median. He turned his head back, eyes once again facing – but, not _seeing_ – the television. What the hell was he thinking? It was Jimmy beside him, not Cas. Apparently, he wasn't as used to that idea as he'd thought. Hoped.

“ _Sonuvabitch,_ ” Dean grumbled under his breath. His left leg began to bounce up and down, the rest of his body suddenly itching to stand, to put a little distance between itself and the _married fucking man_ at the other end of the couch. While he knew that he wasn't about to do anything that he might regret... Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. _Fuck,_ he was so fucking _fucked._

“Dean?” came the careful call of Jimmy's voice. “Are you all right?”

Peeking one eye open, Dean glanced over at his – friend? Companion, maybe? - and saw the worry in his expression. It probably didn't look so grand, him suddenly falling apart on the next cushion. With that in mind, Dean threw on a pretty convincing little smile. “Yeah, sorry... Bit of a headache, s'all.”

“You want me to get you an aspirin?” The older man was already moving to get up, but Dean held up a hand, instead.

“Nah, I've got it.” Not only did Jimmy not know where he was going for the pills, but this was a golden opportunity for him to take a breather. Dean pulled himself to his feet, making a bit of a show of wincing at the pain he didn't actually feel (not in his head, at least). “Thanks, Jimmy.” He gave another smile, this one more sincere than the last, and made his way toward the bathroom.

As he turned the corner out of the room, he barely caught the unsure, “Any time, Dean,” that lingered behind him.

* * *

There was a certain level of nervousness that accompanied Jimmy's plans to return to his family. It was a simple case of butterflies of the stomach, at first glance, excitement, and the overall feeling of 'I can't wait to see them'. But, beneath that, where Jimmy tried (and, failed) not to allow his mind to travel, there was dread. What if Amelia didn't want to see him? He hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms, the last time around. And, it had been _how many years_ since then? It left plenty of time for her to have moved on, for Claire to have grown up and forgotten about him. Or, even worse, to have turned his absence into anger and hatred. Not being a memory he could handle. Having his child loathe his existence, he could not.

With a troubled sigh, Jimmy leaned more heavily upon the pillows. It was thoughts like these that had kept him up _last night._ It had left him just this side of completely useless, today. He had burned three pieces of toast during breakfast, and nearly taken out an entire display case at the grocery store later on in the afternoon. Dean hadn't called him on it, thankfully enough, instead laughing and helping him to pick up the cereal boxes that had toppled to the floor. It had been a decent evening, after that, though. He and Dean had played a few more hands of cards, and talked. Jimmy found that enjoyed talking with Dean. He was easy to get along with, not incredibly hung-up on himself as Jimmy had once believed. There were issues to skirt around, of course, no mentioning of Sam's drinking, or of his parents, or – and, this big no-no was loud and clear on both sides – talking about Castiel. Jimmy still had a couple of colourful word of his own to share about the wayward angel, but not in front of Dean. Poor bastard had enough troubles without having to sit through the equivalent of an ex-boyfriend bashing.

Closing his eyes, Jimmy tried to push everything back in his mind, and get a little bit of rest. He would have plenty of time to fret and consider in the morning. Daylight always brought with it the promise of a new beginning, after all. Exhausted as his body and mind both were, Jimmy was slipping into a dream before he was even aware.

It was several hours later that a commotion startled him from his sleep.

“Lay off, Dean,” Sam suddenly hollered from another room, words slurred and sloppy. “I didn't ask you!”

Jimmy groaned, quietly, rubbing stiff fingertips over his eyelids. A full night's sleep just wasn't going to happen, it seemed. Groping toward the nightstand, Jimmy recovered the watch that Dean had lent to him.

“Consider this your Countdown to Launch,” the younger had joked. “Don't want you being late for your own trip home.”

It took a moment, but he was able to make out the digits in the dark. Once again, Jimmy groaned. Three-eleven in the blessed morning. Jimmy had little experience with sibling confrontation, but, really, couldn't these little disputes take place during the daylight hours?

“Well, see, Sammy, that's the great thing about me! I don't _make_ you ask!”

Great, now, Dean was goading him. After the display in the kitchen just two days prior, Jimmy was a little bit surprised by that. He hadn't made mention, of course (it wasn't his damned business, after all, and he could just _see_ Dean telling him so), but Sam's words were uncalled for. Jimmy knew, every bit as much as Castiel knew, that Dean was a driven, convicted young man, and the source of all of that was his little brother. Without Sam, Dean would have fallen apart. That was why he took such good care of him, anyone could see so. Well, anyone except for Sam.

Something shattered. Jimmy was out of bed and out the door without a second thought.

Castiel had always been fond of Dean, in particular. Jimmy had felt the near-gravitational pull of angel to hunter the first time that they had lay eyes upon one another. When Dean was in trouble, Castiel was there to help. He had refused to allow Dean to put himself into danger without keeping a watchful eye on him. Certainly, Castiel had failed the boy a time or two, but that didn't stop him from caring. And, somewhere along the way, Jimmy (if he was completely honest with himself) had taken on the same viewpoint. If there was a threat to Dean's well-being, the first instinct was to protect him with whatever it took.

Which was why, when he entered the kitchen to find Dean at the corner of the cabinets, crumpled on the floor with blood slipping down his face, Jimmy was poised to kill.

“What the hell is going on?” Jimmy demanded, moving to kneel down beside the fallen Winchester.

Dean's first response was a cough, as he tried to pull himself up from the floor. He winced and grabbed at his left side, clearly in pain. Jimmy swallowed back an angry sound, instead reaching out to assist.

“Sam did this, huh?”

Green eyes glanced away, all-too-fast. “M'fine. S'just a little... disagreement...”

Jimmy snorted, easing Dean's right arm over his shoulders. “Your disagreements generally end with broken noses?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

“S'been known to happen,” Dean slurred, and Jimmy couldn't decide what was more sad about this situation: Dean's pain, his honesty, or the way that he defended his out-of-control brother. In either event, he carefully tugged Dean up from the floor, free arm circling his waist as he walked him to one of the kitchen chairs. Along the way, he took a moment to look around for what had broken, coming up empty. He made a mental note to investigate, later.

Jimmy supported Dean as he sat down, leaving his side just long enough to wet a clean dish cloth. He wrung it out, and stepped back across to the bleeding mess at the table. The sight had Jimmy's own blood boiling. He forced himself to curb the rage, and took up the chair beside Dean's.

“Here,” he coaxed, placing his fingers against Dean's chin, gently turning his abused face toward him. Dean cooperated, but didn't look at Jimmy, causing the older man to sigh. It wasn't as if this was his fault. “This can't continue,” Jimmy advised, gently moving the cloth against Dean's skin. Up-close, he could see that the damage was isolated to the other man's nose. There was no response from Dean, save for a harsh swallow, so Jimmy tried another approach. “Does anything feel broken?”

Finally, Dean shook his head. “Just bruised... It'll heal...” He flinched as the washcloth hit a painful spot.

“Sorry,” Jimmy apologized. “I'll be more careful.” There wasn't much blood left, and Jimmy was able to clean it away without causing Dean further discomfort. When he was done, he set the cloth on the table top, before turning back to the injured party. Leaning forward, Jimmy placed his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together, in front of himself. It was time for damage control. “Dean, look at me.” It took a second, but green eyes finally landed on him. “What happened?”

So much for it not being his business.

Dean seemed to flounder for the words, for a brief moment. It almost made Jimmy sorry that he had asked. _Almost._ “Sam's just a little...” He paused, and sighed. “I don't know what to call him, anymore, Jimmy,” he laughed, bitterly. “I really don't.”

“He needs _help,_ ” Jimmy found himself blurting out, not the least bit sorry. He'd be damned if he was going to waltz back out of the room like he hadn't seen a thing, despite how much Dean's expression seemed to be begging him to. “Is this the first time he's hit you?” Dean scoffed, and Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Since this started, I mean,” he amended himself. Dean nodded, causing the older man to take a breath. Okay, at least he could assume it was a product of the drink. Now, it was a matter of deducing what had charmed him into the bottle, in the first place. “I'm gonna' go talk to him. You should get yourself to bed.”

“He's not here,” Dean interrupted, in a rush. “So, unless you wanna' start talkin' t'the walls, you'd better keep ramblin' at me.”

Jimmy furrowed his eyebrows. “Dean, I'm not _rambling._ I'm _serious._ ” If he sounded slightly huffy, so be it. He had been hoping to alleviate a little bit of anger on Sam, at least to the point of severely raising his voice. But, if he was gone, there was no chance of that until he returned. A horrifying thought came to Jimmy, then. “He didn't take your car, did he?” He let out a breath of relief when Dean shook his head. At least Sam was back to being a danger only to himself. “All right, well, when he cools off, and gets back, he and I are going to have a little chat about this.”

Several seconds passed in silence, and Jimmy stood from his seat. He grabbed hold of the bloodied dish cloth, and brought it to the sink to rinse it out. Turning on the faucet, he spaced out, a little. Water soaked into the material, and Jimmy watched in muted fascination as Dean's watered-down blood began to drip toward the drain. It was unfortunate – downright sad, even – that Dean had to be on the receiving end of a drunken rage. He consoled himself in the knowledge that at least nothing was broken. A few days' worth of healing the bruising, and Dean would be right as rain, physically. But, mentally...

“Hey, why don't you put some ice on that?” he asked, turning himself back around, and nearly having a coronary when he bumped against Dean's chest. “Jesus!” He jumped, the cloth landing back in the sink with a wet squelch, forgotten. Jimmy backed himself against the counter, one hand coming to rest over his own heart. “I think you need a bell,” he tried to joke, but Dean wasn't having any of it.

“There's no reason to talk to Sammy,” he said, firmly. Jimmy looked back at his face, one eyebrow raised. “I've got it under control.”

“Oh, yes, you are the poster child for _in control,_ right now.” Jimmy shook his head, trying not to take any of that verbal aggression out on Dean. Instead, he reached back to shut the faucet off.

“Everything is _fine._ I don't need you fighting my damned battles for me!”

That was an interesting choice of words, Jimmy considered. “Yeah, well, you're not going to do anything for yourself, am I right?” Silence. Damning silence. He fought the urge to smirk in triumph of his proven point. “Just as I thought. So, before this gets any worse-”

“It's not gonna' get any worse!” Dean shouted. “I'll handle it!”

“Dean,” Jimmy bit out, his own patience and control rapidly dissolving. “The next time, he could do more damage! Sure, you can handle yourself, and I know it's only a shot to the face. But, you've gotta' realize, Sam is _a lot_ bigger than you!” It was a terrible angle to attack this from, but Jimmy felt himself running out of options. What was it going to take to make Dean understand?

“What the hell do you care, anyway?” Jimmy was instantly taken back by the accusation in those words. “What'll you do? Phone-in from Pontiac, every day, to make sure Sam's minding his Ps and Qs?”

Really, that kind of hurt. Jimmy didn't bother to hide it, either. “Don't give me that. You should know that I care.” What the hell else would he still be doing up at half-passed a monkey's ass, cleaning up a mess that wasn't _technically_ his own? Reaching up, Jimmy wrapped a hand around the back of Dean's neck. He met the taller man's eyes, which were wide with what Jimmy took for shock. For some unknown reason, that made him smile. “Don't look so surprised, Dean. Believe it, or not, I _do_ give a shit about what happens to you.” _Cas wasn't the only one._ He left the end unspoken, hoping that Dean understood him, regardless.

Sadly, he suddenly felt that there had been a _horrible_ misunderstanding, somewhere, as Dean's lips decided to take an impromptu meeting with his own. Whether it was for having been caught off-guard, or something else, entirely, Jimmy didn't push him away. He didn't have long to think about it, his mind suddenly tuning in to the fact that Dean tasted slightly of whiskey. _Ah-ha,_ he considered, _that explains a lot._

Dean, apparently only just catching up with his own actions, yanked back in a rush. The panicked look on his face was oddly familiar to Jimmy, but he couldn't place the reason. He also didn't understand just _why_ it left him with the urge to pull Dean into his arms. It seemed like a bad case of deja vu. Instead, he dropped his arm back to his own side, starting off with a careful, “Dean...”

“I-I'm sorry,” Dean said in a rush, eyes darting from side to side, nerves taking their hold. “Jesus fucking Christ, I'm so sorry. I-I'm gonna' just...” He pointed a finger over the opposite shoulder, nowhere near the direction of the exit. “I'm gonna' go to bed, now.”

Sighing, Jimmy tried, again. “ _Dean..._ ”

“You should get some sleep, too, huh? You look like hell.” Kinder words had been said in Jimmy's direction, but he chose to ignore it. He took a step toward Dean, who was already backing away from him. Before Jimmy could get another word in, Dean added, “And, I'll bring you home, tomorrow, okay? Bright and early!” That stopped him for a second. It was another of those odd things to come up with. Once again, Jimmy tried to interject, but Dean was already out the doorway, and turned down the hall. Calling out after him would just be a waste of time, now. Even if he did hear, there was no way that Dean was turning himself back around.

With a deep, frustrated groan, Jimmy brought his hands up to cover over his face. Of all the stupid, fucked-up situations in the world, why did he have to find himself in the middle of this one?


	4. (Capitulate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Was. A. Bitch. But, it was very important to me to have it just right, so... I apologize for taking so long. We are finally (finally) headed for the 'good stuff', here. That said, I hope you enjoy your read.
> 
> P.S. Chapter Five won't be too far behind. The stage is set.

For the record, Sam knew that he was being a pretty shitty brother. He'd said a lot of things, especially in the last few days, that he wished with all of his soul (as well as the next guy's) that he could take back. Words that he should have been pleading for Dean to forgive. But, it just wasn't that easy. Nothing with Dean ever had been.

There had always been something about Dean that made it difficult for Sam to apologize. Not for a lack of trying, mind. Sam could talk until he was blue in the face, and, sure, Dean would _say_ that things were 'okay' between them. But, was that ever what he truly meant? Was Sam ever _really_ forgiven? He had his doubts. Because, no matter what came out of his older brother's mouth, there was this... sadness and utter _despair_ in Dean's eyes for fucking _days_ after they had a serious disagreement. Thirty years of that, and he still had no idea what to do to make it go away. It was, in a word, disheartening, to say the least.

Well, that was sugar-coating it. Pissed him off was what it did.

Hunching himself further over the remnants of a questionable looking cup of black coffee, the not-yet-sober hunter was working to sort himself out. No way in hell was he going back home pissed off his ass. That was what had got him in the thick of it, in the first place. The drink had coaxed him into opening his big fat fucking mouth and screaming at the only person in his damned life that wanted to help him. And, then, to have punched Dean for it? Oh, fucking hell, he couldn't believe he'd done something that stupid. The horror had gripped him the second that his brother's shoulders had bounced off the kitchen cabinets, the nauseating twist of guilt settling deep into his core. He hadn't meant to get physical, he really hadn't, but Dean just kept _pushing,_ kept asking him _why,_ kept _begging him_ to talk it over.

Standing up, Sam left the money for his coffee on the table, before turning to leave the diner.

There was nothing to talk about. There never had been.

Deep down inside, Sam tried to tell himself, he was just tired. He needed an honest break, no talk of the last few months tagging along with him, no thinking about what it had taken for him to make it out alive. He needed a good night's rest, a peaceful, uninterrupted slumber that wasn't fueled by booze, or plagued by nightmares, and didn't end with him waking up in a cold sweat. But, above all else, Sam felt the need to get back to the job. Sure, Hell was officially a No Fly Zone, but that still left all the other creepy-crawlies of the non-demon variety wandering the earth. He and Dean had spent so long on the Trials, hell-bent on sealing away the spawn of the Underworld, they had allowed the Purgatory-bound to run amok in a virtual free-for-all. The hunting community (while admittedly capable) was a hurting unit without the Winchester brothers in their corner, there was no denying it. Once they'd had some time to relax (another full week, tops), it would be high time they got back on the horse. Things would get better after that. Once everything was back to normal... Once he could... _forget_...

Shaking off the sudden tingle that ran up his spine, Sam stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk. There was a bitter chill in the early morning air, a crisp, clean smell foretelling of the possibility of snow. Sam nearly scoffed. Just what they needed this early in the season. It was something of a blessing, though. What the coffee hadn't done to bring him back 'round to his supposedly-right mind, the wind was quickly taking care of.

Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, Sam stepped off the sidewalk, and made his way across the street. Lucky for him, he had a rule about going too far from their home, on foot. He just didn't do it. The bunker was only a fifteen minute walk away, just far enough for him to buck-up, and figure out a way to apologize to Dean. To make him _listen._

Sure. That was going to go over like a lead balloon.

Twelve minutes in, and just four streets left to go, and Sam had zero ideas on what to say. How would one go about apologizing for drunkenly cleaning his brother's clock? Other than to beg for everlasting forgiveness and swear on his own tainted soul that it would never happen again, Sam Winchester officially had squat. So, apparently, a run-of-the-mill apology was going to have to suffice. It was how they worked, after all. Sad, but true.

Worse-over? The fact the Sam could have gone for a nice, stiff drink. The realization even surprised him. Working to come off a bender, and then wanting to drown himself all over again? He was pretty sure that even _Dean_ hadn't hit a mark like that. It gave him a reason to pause, mentally, and assess a couple of things. For instance, Dean's words from earlier that evening.

_“You're a fucking booze hound, Sam,” he'd crowed, hypocrisy running high as Dean himself pounded down a bottle of Jack. “I don't know why you can't just admit it to yourself.”_

Thinking about it, now, Dean may have had a point. May have. Okay, so, maybe his drinking _had_ been getting a little bit out-of-hand, lately. And, maybe he _was_ trying to swallow away the last few months, but, who wouldn't be? If another man had done what Sam had, had suffered through the cleansing and the weakness and the worry that he _just couldn't do it_... Not to mention, physically completing each and every task, hell, he'd be buying that poor bastard a drink, and keep 'em coming. And, that was just the stress of the Trials. How about the last thirty-some-odd years of his life? No Mom, and a Dad who saw fit to cart his kids around like excess fucking baggage while he played vigilante. An older brother who just _insisted_ on coming out a carbon fucking copy of their old man, hunting and killing and dragging Sam along for the ride. Losing Jess, and every other woman that came after (but, never matched) her. Time and again losing Dean, and Bobby, and Castiel, and-and-...

“Son of a bitch,” Sam growled under his breath, stopping to press the heels of his hands up against his eyes. Oh, that wasn't good. He could feel the tension collecting back in his shoulders, creeping its way up his neck and into his head. Anger. Sheer, unadulterated wrath collected over three decades, stored away in a dark corner where he never had to look at it. Acknowledge it. Recognize the fact that he had been fucked-over six ways to Sunday, and had every Goddamn right in the world to do as he pleased. He'd earned it.

Rolling his eyes to the sky, Sam was quick to shake that feeling off. It was thinking like that that had landed him out in the cold in the first place.

_Too drunk to make it back his bedroom, he'd settled for the pitch dark of the kitchen, and a bottle of vodka that Dean had stashed behind the bran flakes. His brother had been trying to hide the booze on him, lately, but, ha. Joke was on him. Dean had been using those same hiding places since they were kids, trying to keep the drink away from their father. Vodka behind the cereal, whiskey under the sink, and the cheap stuff went down the drain until Dean was older and felt the need to drink it, himself. Fucking hypocrite was what Dean was, trying to keep him away from a harmless little alcoholic beverage when he'd seen the older man go on a bender that would have made any A.A. Member proud._

_Dean didn't get it. He didn't know what Sam was chasing away with the liquor in his hands. After all, he'd had Cas to fall back on when shit went wrong, whether or not he decided to take advantage of that luxury. Sam didn't have that, didn't have the security of knowing that there was someone willing to stand beside him, willing to catch him when he fell, someone who_ wasn't _his brother. He had Dean more by obligation than anything, by some stupid, ill-placed sense of duty and honor and all the shit that just made Sam angry and hurt at his core. Dean didn't understand that. Dean didn't care about him, about what happened to him, just that it didn't happen on his watch._

_Growling to himself under his breath, Sam polished off another inch-worth of that booze in one go. Just as he lowered the bottle back down to his lap, Dean entered the kitchen, took one look at him, and shook his head._

Taking a long, deep breath, Sam fought back the urge to just render himself unconscious via blunt force. Everything had gone all kinds of pear-shaped after that, and he couldn't believe he'd been thinking such ugly things in the _first fucking place._ Dean loved him, wanted to look after him and make sure he was happy, and what did Sam do, in return? What he always did. He made things more difficult for Dean than they already were. It was practically the story of Dean's life.

Lost your Mom? Here, take care of your little brother.

Dad's just sold his soul? Not a problem, you just have to look after your brother some more. But, if things get out of control, you might have to put a bullet in his skull.

Brother died? Oh, hell, there's a solution to that. Sell your own soul, and you can have him back. Piece of fucking cake.

And, now? Now, when your angel has left you – when there is literally no one else left in the entire fucking world for you to count on – you can sit back and watch your brother fall apart before your very eyes.

Jesus Christ, he was supposed to be there for Dean, just like he was refusing to let Dean be there for him. Of all the times his brother needed him, this was a big one, and he was single-handedly fucking it all up.

_I'm so fucking ungrateful,_ Sam berated himself, tilting his head back and opening his eyes to the sky above him. There was no comfort to be found in the vast expanse of dark blue and twinkling white. Dean was miserable, and it was his fault. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Things were supposed to be _different._ That knowledge just made him all the angrier.

“ _This isn't what we agreed on!”_ he bellowed, arms flailing out beside him. No answer followed down from the Heavens. He hadn't been expecting one. “ _You promised me! YOU PROMISED ME!”_

Then again, when could it be said that Sam Winchester ever truly got what he was promised? 

* * * 

Jimmy didn't quite know what to do with himself as he packed up the few things he had in the bunker. A couple of shirts that Dean had picked up for him, too small to be of any use to either of the brothers after he left, went into a plastic bag. The ugly suit that he had been riding around in for the passed six years (and never wanted to see, again) were soon folded up, and stacked atop the shirts. And, finally, in went a pair of dress shoes that had seen more mileage than the Impala, in one form or another. That was it, the sum of the last six years of his life, packed away in less than five minutes.

How fucking sad was that?

On the one hand, Jimmy wanted to go and set things straight with Dean. This seemed the most appropriate course of action, given how they had left things. Well, given how _Dean_ had left him standing in the middle of the damned kitchen, wondering just _what_ signal he had been giving off for the passed few days. Whether unfortunately, Dean hadn't spoken to him since the night before. He was pretty sure that the younger man hadn't even left his bedroom.

On the other hand, he just _really_ wanted to go choke the life out of Sam Winchester, himself. It seemed like the most _satisfying_ thing he could do. But, as per the usual, concerns for Dean came first.

It wasn't to say that he faulted Dean for his actions, not entirely. Alcohol was a poor excuse for something like kissing what was essentially a stranger (at least, by comparison), but, heartache? There was no denying the man that. It was quite obvious that, whatever had been transpiring between angel and hunter, it was more than just one night's worth of disposable emotions. Had Castiel found it in himself to actually _stick the hell around,_ who was to say what might have happened? He and Dean could have been setting up housekeeping, picking out china patterns, or whatever the hell two people in-love did, anymore. But, no. No, Dean was left to mend himself to emotions that he had obviously been keeping to himself. And, really, that just made Jimmy angry as all hell.

Double-checking the bathroom, Jimmy avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't care to look at the product of a night without sleep. So consumed by worry and guilt as he was, Jimmy had spent the majority of the previous night tossing and turning. Emotions, thoughts running through his mind, tap-dancing around his skull in a pattern that all sang to him, _Dean, Dean, Dean._

Jimmy shook his head, a little, and chucked a half-used bar of soap in the trash with a defeated sigh. No use in letting that hang around after he left.

There were other reasons why he couldn't hold that kiss against Dean, couldn't blame the man for seeking that sense of comfort. Most of those reasons were tied up in a rumple of old sheets on a sketchy motel bed, some two days and several hundred miles back down the road. Left behind with the fuzziness of a tequila-induced hangover and the last sight of himself draped in tan.

Jimmy had tried to push those memories back, but, now... Damn it, it was all that he had been able to _think about,_ the last seven hours. It was embarrassing. He was a _married fucking man,_ for fuck's sake, and here he was, consumed by thoughts of his experiences inside of another man. Inside of _Dean._

Oh, angelic duties, or not, he was going straight to hell.

It was startling, how vividly he remembered everything. From the taste of Dean's tongue in his mouth to the distant hum of the old neon sign proclaiming 'Vacancy' at the edge of the parking lot, there wasn't a single detail that wasn't ingrained in Jimmy's memory. Dean's skin had been surprisingly easy to touch, not at-all as rough and uninviting beneath his fingers as he thought it should have been. It was nice, the feeling of bare skin against his own after so long without. Dean certainly hadn't been shy, either, hands stroking over Jimmy's neck and shoulders, fingers slipping through his hair and along his jawline. Jimmy had leaned into every single touch, soaking up the contact like an affection-starved puppy. Dean's lips were their own brand of heavenly, each kiss – whether to lips, or neck, or collarbone – a delight worthy of the moans they had drawn from the older man.

If he concentrated, Jimmy could still recall the faint mixture of sex and the smell of Dean's soap that had lingered in the room. It was a haunting thing, Dean's scent. After their encounter in the kitchen, Jimmy had gone back to his room with _Dean_ all over his night clothes. He would be _damned_ if the scent of the man's aftershave hadn't made his jeans a bit uncomfortable over the last couple of days, and it had suddenly followed him to bed. He'd been tempted to slip his hand into his night pants, but had refrained. It felt so dirty, the idea of taking advantage, _again._ He couldn't help it, the want, not with his senses caressed by such sweet, inviting recollections. Like it or not, Jimmy was taking those memories to his grave.

That included the way that Dean had moaned Castiel's name, over and over again.

The look in green eyes, the trusting, loving gaze that was meant for someone who was already long-gone.

Something twisted in Jimmy's stomach. There went that guilt thing, again. So far as Dean knew, he had been taking his pleasures with his best friend, not with some random pencil-pusher from Illinois. He'd kissed Jimmy, seeking out the warmth of a being that he had barely been able to experience. He had no way to know. It all seemed so unfair. Poor Dean was pining for someone who hadn't really been with him, not for long. Jimmy had taken advantage of that. In his selfish, adrenaline-fueled need to touch, to _feel_... He'd stolen something from a young man who was slowly beginning to mean _something_ to him, something he didn't think he'd ever be ready to admit.

Blue eyes turned toward the toilet. Jimmy felt the sudden urge to vomit. Swallowing back the bile creeping up his throat, he instead took a deep breath, and picked up the disposable razor that Dean had given him. Jesus Christ – and, he meant that, no matter _who_ or _what_ was listening – the things that Dean had done for him. Taking him in, taking _care_ of him, and he... _He_...

Jimmy gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, shoulders hunched and head hung. He was a terrible, horrible sham of a man, filthy in sin, desire and infidelity. He jerked his head up, staring hard into the reflections of his own eyes. What he found there was of little surprise. Hatred. Loathing. _Fear._ His first instinct was to smash the mirror to pieces, destroy the visual evidence in front of him. Instead, Jimmy pushed off of the sink with a snarl, flung the razor into the trash as he turned himself on his heel, and marched back down the hallway to the bedroom. He snatched the plastic bag off of the bed, and took one last look around the small space.

Once again, something was tugging at his gut, something tight and painful that had him hesitating at the door. This time, he knew it wasn't guilt. It was longing. He'd grown comfortable here in just a few short days, crazy as it sounded. Even crazier was knowing that there was a part of him that didn't want to go back to Pontiac. Some small, isolated bit of Jimmy wanted to stay right where he was. No matter what happened, he enjoyed Dean's company, and Sam just needed a swift kick in the ass to bring him back 'round. There was still work to be done here, wasn't there? How could he just leave them all alone?

_How stupid,_ he groaned in his head, pushing the feeling back. He had a family to return to, responsibilities that needed his attention. Here, in this place, Jimmy was neither needed, nor wanted. Dean had been just fine on his own long before Jimmy had returned, and he would be even better without him. This urge to hang around, to protect 'just in case', it was just an after-effect of the recently vacated angel.

Turning a murderous gaze toward the ceiling, Jimmy growled out a low, “Fuck you, Castiel,” before making his final exit. He clicked the lights off on his way out, leaving the room shrouded in darkness. A tan memory rested atop the bed pillows, folded up neatly, and waiting to be forgotten.

* * *

There were still things that woke Dean up in a cold sweat. Ugly nightmares crept into his head from time to time, some comprised of horrible memories, others fabricated of his own worries and insecurities. They would cause him to shoot straight up in bed – much like now – and look around in a panic. Usually, his wide, frightened eyes were seeking out Sammy, searching for a visual confirmation that the younger man was still breathing, not shot or stabbed or _fucking possessed,_ as he tended to be in those horrible images that plagued his unconscious mind.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, he was swallowing back a terrified call for Jimmy. His mind was surprisingly quick to point out how stupid _that_ was. He didn't have to worry about that one, right? Taking a deeper breath to calm himself back down, Dean comforted himself in the knowledge that, _it was just a nightmare, Winchester. Nothing happened to Jimmy, he's just fine._

Jimmy, who was less than ten paces down the hall, probably still sleeping, or praying, or whatever the hell James Novak was used to doing at – he checked his alarm clock – eight-twenty-seven in the morning? Well, fuck, it was time he got out of bed.

Dean yawned, and stretched, silently assessing his morning game plan. A quick exploration of tongue-against-mouth dictated that he was going to need to take a meeting with his toothbrush, and soon. Maybe a few aspirin for the pounding in his head. Dean glanced over the side of his bed, unsurprised to find a half-empty bottle of Jack settled (upright, no less) on the carpet. Ah, that explained the bad taste, at least. And, the headache. Didn't really explain why his shoulders hurt like a bitch, though. Shaking his head, he slid off the bed, and made his way out to the bathroom.

The bunker was silent, likely confirming his suspicions that Sam and Jimmy were both still visiting with the world of dreams. His stomach soured, slightly, at that. _May they be having better luck with that than me._ On the bright side, though, no one stirring meant that he could have a nice, long shower in uninterrupted peace. No drunken little brother stumbling through the door, flushing the toilet while Dean was rinsing shampoo from his hair. (One thing that still sucked about the place was some of the old-school plumbing). No-

“ _Jesus Christ!”_ he shouted, hopping back a pace from the sink. What the fuck was _that?_ he asked himself, cautiously leaning forward until his reflection was once again in the bathroom mirror. Dean blinked once, hard, his eyes opening wide. “What in the...?” Apparently, he hadn't been seeing things, the first time. His face – or, what once _was_ his face – looked like it had gone a few rounds with the World Champion. Dean scoffed, quickly catching himself up with the situation. _Or, just one, with Sam's big meat hook._ Oh, he remembered, now, clearly recalling one sloppy, but surprisingly well-placed swing on his little brother's part. He'd landed it damn well, too, if the angry purpling under his left eye and across the bridge of his nose was anything to go by. Dean hadn't recognized the sting of it when he had first woken up, but the uncomfortable tinging was beginning to settle in, now. Whether thankfully, he'd taken far worse.

This time, there was no dried blood, though. Jimmy'd done a pretty good job of cleaning him up.

“ _Oh, fuck._ ” And, _there it was._ The final piece of the puzzle Dean hadn't known he was trying to solve. Had he really put his mouth, uninvited, on _Jimmy?_ Oh, hell, that was just beautiful. Something else to piss the poor guy off before he went home.

Fingers gripping at the edges of the sink, Dean closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath. _Today._ He'd promised to take Jimmy home, _today._ That was the last thing he wanted to do. Not because he was in no shape to drive (he'd been worse-off than this, and crossed over state lines), and not because it was too long a trip. If he took Jimmy home, today... Then, that was it. He'd never hear from the man again, never see his warm smiles or friendly eyes. It wasn't as if Dean could just one day dial him up and ask, “Hey, wanna' go get some coffee?” if he ever passed through Illinois. And, if ever that chance _did_ exist... It was long-gone, now.

_Quit being selfish,_ he silently instructed himself as he opened the medicine cabinet for his toothbrush. _He's got a family to go back to, and you promised him that you would get him there, today. Can't go back on your word, now, Winchester._

He'd never wanted reason to be called a goddamn liar more in his entire life.

* * * 

Sam looked up from his laundry upon hearing the knock against his door frame. He was quite surprised to see Jimmy standing there, hovering at the entrance, a plastic bag twisted between his fingers. The man's expression was unreadable, eyes narrowed at Sam in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. He'd felt that way around Castiel, too. Apparently, some things never changed.

“Oh, uh... Hey,” he greeted, somewhat awkwardly. Sam knew what Jimmy was there for. There was no way that it _didn't_ involve that morning's... _Events._ “If you're looking for Dean, he's not in here.”

Jimmy shook his head, a bit, saying nothing right away. He glanced around the room once, keeping it brief and polite, before returning his gaze to Sam. “Actually, I was hoping that I could talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

Taking a deep breath, Sam surrendered with a slight nod. “Yeah, sure,” he replied, folding the shirt in his hands, quick and sloppy, and stuffing it in the drawer. Sliding the drawer closed, Sam turned to face Jimmy, and motioned for him to enter. “What's up?”

“Well,” Jimmy began, slowly, taking a few steps into the room. “I'm... I'm leaving, this morning, and there were a few things I wanted to say before I did.”

Leaving? That was a surprise to Sam. “I thought you were here another few days?”

“Change in plans,” the older man replied, and Sam didn't miss the slight hint of regret in his tone. “Listen, about Dean...” Sam immediately opened his mouth to argue, _he knew, damn it, he knew!,_ but Jimmy held up a hand to stop him. “Just... listen, okay? That's all I'm asking for, here. I'm not looking for an argument.”

Sam let out a soft snort of air, wondering just _what_ family Jimmy had been staying with, these passed few days. “Okay, yeah. Sounds good to me.”

Blue eyes regarded Sam for a moment, before Jimmy nodded. “I know that... That alcohol can make good men do horrible things. I've seen it, long before this morning, but... But, Sam, this _Dean._ If there's one person you shouldn't be letting this out on, it's him.” Sam bit his tongue, quite literally, and held himself to the promised silence. “Now, I promised him that I wouldn't interfere in this... _whatever this is_ that you two have going on, between you, but, Sam, Dean deserves better. A lot better, especially from you.”

Sam sighed. “I know he does,” he mumbled, moving to sit down heavily atop the edge of his bed. He glanced down at the carpet from between his knees, and smiled, tiredly. “He always has.”

“Well, I don't know much about that,” Jimmy replied, somewhat hesitantly. He stepped over, and Sam felt the bed dip as Jimmy took up the space beside him. “And, I don't know what's been bothering you so badly, lately. But, the _right now,_ that's what you have the power to change. Whether or not you do, well, that's your choice.”

“I didn't mean to hurt him,” Sam blurted out, fully-aware that he was likely to begin an argument. He really didn't see why he was defending himself – to _Jimmy,_ of all people – but, if it ended this conversation any faster... “I'm going to apologize, and it won't happen, again.”

“That's good.” The response surprised Sam. Jimmy didn't even glance in his direction, just kept looking down at his hands. And, when he continued, his voice was just as tight with restrained anger as it was calm and even. “Because, I may be going back to home, but, don't you even _think,_ not for _one second,_ Sam, that I won't drive myself back down here if I even _hear_ of it happening, again.” Jimmy shifted the bag around in his hands for a brief second. “And, so help me God, or whoever else is listening... If you _ever_ hurt your brother again, I will kill you, myself.”

Sam jerked his head up, just in time to meet with Jimmy's sideways stare. There was something in his expression that the younger man was not about to argue with. Silent. Warning. Unsure of what to say to that (that _didn't_ involve a string of colorful curses and straight-up threats), Sam kept quiet, jaw clenched and face surely going red, watching as Jimmy once again stood up.

“Take care of yourself, Sam.” With that, Jimmy walked back out of Sam's room, closing the door behind him.

Sam sat on the bed for a long while after, thinking about what Jimmy had said. There was no way in hell that he was going to hurt Dean again, but the accusation that he might still made him angry. He had half a mind to chase their house guest down and physically knock him down off his high horse. How dare Jimmy barge in and say things like that? How _dare_ he? He understood _nothing_ about the Winchesters, only what he had seen through Castiel. Sam knew how that worked, had been through it with Lucifer, and likewise knew that it didn't amount to shit.

Jimmy knew _nothing._

Throwing himself back onto the mattress, Sam barely bothered to right himself against the pillows before throwing his arms out to his sides, and closing his eyes. He'd take a little nap, Jimmy would be gone by the time that he woke up, and everything would finally go back to fucking normal.

* * * 

Dean's knuckles had gone white for how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. Twenty-four miles he and Jimmy had been traveling in the most ungodly silence, not even the radio to keep them company. It seemed like a cop-out, and this was one of those _rare_ times that Dean wouldn't have been able to enjoy the soothing sounds of Judas Priest if he tried.

Point blank, he knew he fucked up. And, bless his soul, Jimmy wasn't making a federal case out of it. Actually, he hadn't said two words to Dean about _anything_ that didn't involve, “All ready to go?” It was irritating, on some level. Awkward as hell, to boot. He didn't want to talk about it, though, no. But, cripes, were they just going to go on like he hadn't pulled the dumbest fucking stunt possible? Or, was Jimmy really just _that_ unaffected by it?

Jesus Christ, this was why he drank.

Forty-five miles. Silence.

Eighty-two miles. Silence.

Finally, just outside of Topeka, Jimmy shifted in his seat, and turned to face Dean. The younger man kept his eyes on the road, all the while his heart was creeping into his throat. They were about to have it out, he just knew it, and confined spaces were never a good place for that.

It came as somewhat of a surprise when Jimmy only mentioned, “Do you think we could stop at a gas station, or something? I need a drink.”

Dean nodded, blowing out a quiet breath of air as he turned down what looked to be a main road. They'd been for drinks at the last stop, so there was really little need for another trip. Dean didn't argue, though. If Jimmy wanted a break from him, then, so be it. There was a service station about a quarter of a mile down, and he pulled the Impala into the parking lot. Eying the gas gauge, he decided to fill up now, rather than wait, and have to make a third stop before Kansas City.

“Thanks,” Jimmy muttered, climbing out and heading for the entrance. Dean watched him go, before dropping his head back against the seat in a groan. The radio was going on, the second he was back in the car.

Undoing his seat belt, Dean got out of the car, and went about pumping the gas. He mentally filed through his music collection, trying to decide between Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath. _Decisions, decisions._ Once Baby was set, he went inside to pay, eyes immediately scanning the store for Jimmy. He wasn't hard to spot, crouched down and searching one of the snack displays like a man on a mission. Dean couldn't help but smile, just a little. Everything Jimmy did, he took so damned seriously. He was going to miss that.

Dean slid the money to the guy behind the counter, tossing in a couple of lollipops, and headed back outside. Sinking himself back into the driver's seat (sweet, _sweet home_ ), Dean reached into the back for his shoebox of cassette tapes. He settled them on his lap, fingers flicking through each title, one at a time. There were a few empty spaces that he still mourned, such as his copy of _...And Justice for All,_ which had been eaten in the tape deck a few months back. _Ace of Spades_ had slowly begun to warp, Lemmy sounding like he was on one drug too many through several songs, and _Pyromania_ had a bit of a skip to it, these days. Sam had been harping on him about switching to CDs for years, now. Something to consider, he supposed, knowing he would have a hard time replacing some of his favourite cassettes.

It was several minutes later that Jimmy opened the passenger door, sliding in with a paper bag overflowing with potato chip bags and other assorted treats. Dean smirked, watching him try to fit the purchases down onto the floor, between his knees.

“Find everything you were looking for?” he asked, somewhat teasingly. When Jimmy merely nodded, Dean fought back a sigh, slipping the key into the ignition and turning her over. _Here we fucking go,_ he cautioned himself. _I'll be damned if I'm sitting through_ this, _again._

“Hey, hold on a second,” Jimmy piped up, at last, rifling around in that bag for something. “Ah-ha! Here.” Sitting back up, Jimmy presented Dean with two items: a Mountain Dew, and a Little Debbie apple pie. Green eyes blinked up from the offered snacks, landing on Jimmy's smiling face. “They're for you.”

It took a moment for Dean to find himself enough to set the box of tapes between them, and reach out and accept the items. He took them from Jimmy's hands, looking down with a smile of his own. “Hey, thanks, Man,” he said, resting the bottle between his legs, before carefully opening the pie wrapper.

Jimmy's smile widened. “Anytime.” He peeked over at the box that was now up against his leg.  
“What've you got going on, here?”

To that, Dean fought back a little grin. “Deciding on what to listen to.”

“Oh,” Jimmy replied with an understanding nod. “Need some help?”

“Nah.” Mind made up, Dean grabbed a particular case. “I think I've got it.” He slid the cassette into the tape deck, the opening notes of the title track spilling from the speakers. Jimmy laughed aloud, causing Dean to do the same. _Damn,_ he was going to miss that laugh. He was also going to miss the way that Jimmy tapped his fingers and sang along with the lyrics.

_The video game says "Play me"... Face it on a level but it takes you every time on a one on one..._ _Feeling running down your spine... Nothing gonna save your one last dime cause it owns you... Through and through..._  
  
Less than a week in, and he was going to miss everything.

* * * 

“Look, Dean,” Jimmy cut in, some time after they had passed through Bloomington. Dean shifted his gaze to his companion for a few seconds, before looking back to the road. “I've gotta' be honest about something, and since we've only got...” He paused, and checked his watch. “About twenty minutes left, I guess that now's as good a time as any.”

Dean tried not to flinch at that, knowing what was coming. The bulk of the trip had gone by in a blur of jokes and music and not-so-meaningless chatter. It made sense that Jimmy would save the hardest blow for last. “Yeah?” he asked, once he trusted his voice.”What's that?”

There was silence from the passenger seat, creeping over at Dean in an uncomfortable way. He held his breath, waiting to be told off. Instead, Jimmy shook his head, and sighed. “I just want you to know... I know I'm not exactly handy, as far as distance goes, but... This mess with your brother.” He turned his head to look at Dean. “I know it's really not my business, I do. But, if it gets worse, or you need help with anything, I'm not impossible to reach.” He fixed Dean with a pointed stare, which the younger man met for all of two seconds.

“Yeah, well...” Dean rested his fingers against his face, fingers slowly pulling over his bottom lip. “I appreciate that, thanks. And, hey, you know. If you ever need me, I'm just a phone call away, man.” Jimmy nodded, gaze suddenly dropping to his lap. “Hey, no, I mean it. If you run into trouble, or this doesn't go like you want it to, you just need somebody to talk to...” Dean cringed, a little bit, but pushed on. This was his one shot. No matter how uncomfortable it made him, he was going to take it. “You call me. You got it?”

Another moment passed, Jimmy fiddling with the soda bottle between his hands. “I won't hesitate to drive back and kick Sam's ass, you realize.”

Dean couldn't help it. He broke out in a laugh. “You're gonna' protect me, huh?” he asked, not mocking, but certainly amused.

Beside him, Jimmy cracked a little smile. “A little bit backward, but..” He paused, and shrugged. “I guess it's right. Sort of an, 'If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long-lost pal' sort of a thing.”

It felt like someone had jammed a boulder into his solar plexus. _Your long-lost pal._ Dean swallowed, hard, fingers wrapping tighter around the steering wheel. Responses lined up on his tongue, _I don't need you to be Cas, I just need you,_ currently fighting its way into the lead position. It was stupid, and he had no idea where it came from, but there it was. It was neither the time nor place for that, though, and the words that ended up leaving his mouth sounded something like, “Well, I'm sure as hell not lettin' you call me _Betty._ ”

Jimmy laughed.

And, that was that.

Jimmy pointed out the proper streets, told him which turns to take. Before long, Dean could see the house coming into view. He pulled up alongside the curb a few yards back, hoping to avoid looking suspicious (but, what _didn't_ look a little strange about two men in faded jeans and old t-shirts skulking about in such a nice neighborhood?). He killed the engine, and leaned a ways to his right, not missing the sharp breath that Jimmy took in as he moved closer. Opening up the glove compartment, Dean fished out a pen and scrap piece of paper. He scribbled down his phone number, and passed it over to Jimmy.

“Here,” he said, waiting until Jimmy took the paper to re-cap his pen. “That's where you can reach me.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Jimmy replied, folding the number into his palm. He looked up at Dean, their eyes meeting, and it was all Dean could do to keep his mouth shut. _Don't go, Jimmy. Seriously, I can't do this._

“Yeah. Welcome.” He nodded, once, and made to stuff the pen back in the box. “You take care of yourself, now.”

“You, too.” The door opened, and Dean didn't – _couldn't_ watch Jimmy's departure. Jimmy stepped onto the sidewalk, closed the door back up, and leaned down to the open window. “I'll call you in a couple of days, Dean. Okay?”

Dean glanced back, throwing on a quick smile. “Yeah, you bet.” Jimmy backed away, and Dean started the engine. He pulled back onto the street, not bothering to look into the rear-view mirror. Only saps looked back. If there was one thing he wasn't, it was a sap. Besides, he didn't want his last memory of Jimmy to be watching him ascend the steps to his family home, leaving his life forever. Best that it be the promise of a call that he wouldn't wait on, because it would never come.


	5. Without (Ship Gone Under)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.  
> Author's Notes: I, uh... I have no good excuse for the long absence... If you can forgive me, I hope you enjoy!! *leaves the chapter, and heads for the hills!!!!*

Dean returned to a quiet bunker the next day. Sam was either asleep, or out, neither of which concerned the older Winchester. At that very moment in time, Crowley himself could have popped out from one of the kitchen cabinets and asked him to do the merengue. It wouldn't have affected him. The bunker could have begun to shake and collapse around him. _Let the fucker tumble,_ he would have thought, while moving to stand in the middle of it, arms outstretched, eyes closed. It may have sounded a little bit dramatic (okay, _totally_ dramatic), but Dean didn't care. Nineteen straight hours on the road had zapped what little bit of life had been left to him, whatever pieces of his hope had survived Pontiac long-gone.

Only once or twice before had Dean felt so empty, so damned tapped-out that he was completely prepared to throw in the towel on everything. And, he meant _everything._ Safety off, barrel in mouth, _bang._ Sayonara. Whenever it got that bad, it was a sure-fire bet that it had to do with Sam. The past spoke to that, well and clear. If it hadn't been for Sam making him promise to go on with his life after he landed in the Cage... Yeah, there was a very slim chance that Dean would still be alive and kicking. If it hadn't been for Lisa and Ben, he never would have made it through that year a sane man. They had been the support he needed without Sam around. Just like Jimmy had been his support after Castiel up and left him, and everything once again went askew with his brother.

Now, Jimmy was gone, too. Cas was gone, Sam was as good _as_ gone, and Dean was, once again, all alone. But, that was basically the story of his life, wasn't it? The ones he loved disappointed him, and those that were kind enough to pick up the pieces eventually got tired of trying to glue him back together. Had better offers. In Jimmy's case, he was kind enough to have stuck around for as long as he did.

Part of Dean could appreciate that. The rest of him was mentally half-way to dialing Jimmy's phone number in a pathetic attempt to hear the other man's voice.

With a deep sigh, Dean opened the cabinet beneath the sink, bending down to retrieve a bottle of Jack from behind a wall of Pine Sol and Clorox. He stared at the label for a long moment, before twisting off the cap, and taking it back with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Sammy had had it right, after all.  


* * *   


_Day Two Post-Pontiac_

 

A headache had settled in behind Dean's eyes by noon-time, a deep, throbbing tension that grabbed hold and just wouldn't let go. He was pretty sure he'd popped more painkillers than were necessary, and the pain had barely dulled. It left him wanting to track something down to take his frustrations out on. With that thought in-mind, he clicked on his computer.

There was a hunt up in Poughkeepsie. Looked like a witch on training wheels.

There wasn't enough Tylenol in the _world._

As always, there were things to consider before taking on the case. Health, sanity, the usual suspects. As it stood, Sammy wasn't back to one hundred percent, yet, and Dean, himself, was dragging a little ass. Had that ever stopped them, before? Hell, no. Was it going to stop them, today?

Yeah, probably.

The issue was less that Dean worried about their capabilities of getting upright and on the road, and more that they wouldn't click as a functioning unit. They'd barely spoken since their disagreement in the kitchen. Putting their lives in one another's hands, as bad-off as they were?

Dean declined to take the case, shutting off his laptop without giving it another thought.  
 

* * *

  _Day Four Post-Pontiac_

 

Dean had taken up a post on the living room couch, accompanied by a remote control and a glass of whiskey. Sam was out. The bunker was quiet. Dean hadn't slept in two days.

 _The Boondock Saints_ was coming on.

He clicked the television off.  
 

* * *  
 

_Day Six Post-Pontiac_

 

The whiskey started to taste like acid. Dumping a near-full glass of liquid down the sink, Dean switched to a beer. It wasn't much of an improvement, but he went with it.  
 

* * *  
 

_Day Seven Post-Pontiac_

 

It was somewhere around dinner time when Dean finally emerged from his bedroom. He started in a dead sprint for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time to bring up what felt like everything he hadn't ate, and then some. _Chocolate bar, beer, and bile, yum._ Each offering to the porcelain god burned like fire, shot straight up from his gut. His head was pounding, like someone was tap dancing on his skull with enough passion to make Fred Astaire proud.

Dean chose to ignore the fact that he hadn't been drunk, the night before.  
 

* * *  
 

Now, Sam Winchester was a lot of things. He had been accused of even more, things that he had not been in ages (naïve, for one), and some that he had never been (fucking stupid), thank him, very much. Granted, there were some things in life that slipped by him, mentally. He'd fallen for Ruby's stunts, sure, and he had managed to start that Apocalypse thing, but, damn it, his intentions had been for the best. The road to hell was paved with what, again?

Either way one chose to slice it, Sam wasn't completely clueless. So, when Dean decided that it was acceptable to be turning up every afternoon or so, looking like the dog's dinner, it was clear to the younger man what was happening.

“You know, this isn't healthy,” Sam commented over a simple breakfast of scorched bread and whiskey. For all his efforts (which were about nil, to begin with), Sam still had yet to master the damned toaster, inebriated. Dean hadn't so much as scrambled an egg in nearly a week, and, while Sam was hardly mourning the loss of prepared meals, he wasn't over the moon to watch his brother spiral down with him. Said brother, who sat across from him with his elbow on the table, head resting in his hand, was barely acknowledging anything as he stared straight down at the table top. Okay, so, it was more like the man was fighting off sleep, but, really, who was he to judge?

Honestly, Sam wasn't so far gone that he didn't put two and two together. Jimmy had been gone for eight days, nestled back in the safety of his home, during which time Dean had settled into a neat little pattern of drink, drink, puke, drink, pass out by five in the afternoon, wake up sometime around dawn, puke, and keep drinking like he never stopped. It was disgusting. It was sickening.

It was the same damned thing that Sam had spent the last six weeks doing to himself, and he just wasn't going to have any of it.

“You've gotta' eat something, Dean,” he tried again, hoping to rouse his brother's interests. Hell, if he could just get the older Winchester's attention, it would be one in the 'Win' column. So far, he was batting zero. Clearly, it was going to take a bit of dirty pool to accomplish his goal. He hated to do it, but, before he could give it another thought, the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “You know, you could always just call him.”

Ah, that did it. Green eyes were on him in a fraction of a second, a clear, unpolluted glare leveled in his direction. Good to know he still had it.

“I know where you're goin', Sammy,” Dean warned, a daring anti-smile creeping over his lips. “ _Don't._ ”

Here, Sam raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I'm just trying to be helpful,” he replied, feigning offense. After all, wasn't that what they did, now? Offer up opinions, no matter _how_ unwarranted or blatantly unwanted? Standing from his seat, Sam made for nonchalant, dumping the remnants of his breakfast into the trash, abandoning the plate into the sink. “You've been sulking for days, though.” In truth, he had no good answer as to _why_ he felt the need to throw himself to the proverbial lions on this one, beyond the fact that it gave him pleasure to return the favour. Dean snorted, quietly, and Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Why don't you just find a hunt, then?”

Again, Dean scoffed. “Have you _seen us,_ lately, Sam?” he asked, in some measure of disbelief. “You and me, we couldn't coordinate to kill a vampire in open daylight.”

There was truth to that, Sam couldn't argue. If they were to venture out to into the world of the paranormal, the two of them would be lucky to make it out in pieces, and that was being optimistic. That wasn't to say that getting out and ganking something wouldn't do them a world of good. There had to be a compromise in it, somewhere, right?

“Well, how about this,” Sam ventured, having mulled the idea over in his head for far less a time than was safe. “We take a day of driving, right? Get off the booze, buy some black coffees on the road, and give it a shot.”

Silence. Sam turned around, worried that Dean had left the room in the middle of his proposition, only to find his big brother staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. “You want to give it a _shot?_ ” Dean asked, somewhat disbelieving. Sam smirked, shrugging one shoulder.

“Hey, it worked, the last time, remember?”

Dean rolled his eyes. In fact, his entire head rolled back on his shoulders with the force of it. Something in there gave an unhealthy sounding crack. “ _Fine,_ ” Dean agreed, a bit too easily, his body straightening up, considerably. “We'll _give it a shot._ ” Pushing himself up from his chair, the older man disappeared to the next room.

After a moment, Sam sighed. Well, _that_ hadn't gone over as he'd planned. Dean needed a distraction, and he'd only wanted to help to provide that. Now, his brother was likely twice as pissed off at him, as before. _Damn,_ why had he opened his freaking mouth?

“All right, Sammy,” Dean's voice rushed back into the room, causing Sam to jump. He stared at Dean, wide-eyed, until Dean caught the look of surprise on his face. “What?” he asked, holding up a small handful of manilla folders.

Dumbly, Sam shook his head. “Nothing, nothing.” _I just didn't expect you to come back in._ “What've you got, there?” He nodded his head toward the folders.

Dean glanced down, shuffling through the files in his hands. “Well, we've got _this one,_ ” he paused, holding up the first folder. “Possible werewolf activity in Charleston. Personally, I think it's a bunch of kinds who spent too much time mushing their brains to the tune of _Twilight,_ but.” He shrugged, tossed the first folder onto the table top, and held up another one. “A witch, up in Poughkeepsie. I'm, uh... I'm not too crazy for this idea, but, whatever. Nobody else seems to want it. And, finally, _this_ little gem.” He tossed the second folder, and produced the third and final one. “A possible case of possession in Washington.” The third folder soon joined the first two on top of the table, and Dean slipped his hands into his pockets. “Your choice, little brother.”

Stepping up to the table, Sam shuffled through the folders slowly, reading the details that Dean had managed to collect over the last... He really didn't know how long. If there was something to follow up on, Sam certainly had enough information in front of him. The werewolf case was a no-brainer. They just weren't ready for that kind of a hunt, quite yet. The witch could have been within their league, but... Dean's discomfort at the idea had him closing the folder, and setting it aside. He picked up the remaining file, and handed it back to Dean.

“Hm. Possession, it is, huh?” Dean asked, as passively as possible, though Sam knew he was happy to see _anything_ but Lucky Folder Number _Two._

Sam nodded. “Seems simple enough.” He could have recited the proper incantations in his sleep, so, his choice was hinged on the safest bet. “When do you wanna' leave?”

A shrug. “How about now?” Dean ventured, staring at Sam with tired, dark-rimmed eyes. “Unless, y'know, you're afraid to miss the best of Wednesday night television?”

To that, Sam couldn't help but to smirk. It was nice to hear Dean crack a joke. Hell, it was nice to _hear Dean._ Granted, they'd had more than their fair share of disputes, but Sam had really been concerned that he'd finally crossed a line that they couldn't step back behind. “Yeah, I'm gonna' run through the shower, first? Get my stuff together.” It was a bit strange to say, really. They were so used to a life of everything they needed... _owned_... packed away into one small, well-loved space. Half the time, Sam didn't even bother to unpack his duffel bags when they stopped at the motels. It didn't feel right. A dank little room with bad lighting and stains of dubious origin on every available surface wasn't anything that he could _ever_ have considered to be _home._

“A'right,” Dean agreed, tapping the folder in the one hand against the palm of the other. “I'll be at the car.”

Sam scoffed. “You're gonna' wait all that time?” Dean glanced back up at him, then, the slightest hint of something (dare he think it) _excited_ sparking in the older man's eyes. An eyebrow was raised, and Sam knew all-too-well what it meant.

_What do you think, little brother?_

Shaking his head, Sam followed Dean out of the kitchen, both turning down the same hallway. They parted ways at their respective bedrooms, Sam glancing back over his shoulder to see Dean returning the look. Nodding, once, in Sam's direction, Dean disappeared into his room. It took Sam a bit longer to do the same, staring at his brother's now-closed door for a moment longer than he had intended.

Honestly, this hunt had him nervous. It was bound to go to shit, no matter how he chose to look at things. His own idea, or no, it was botched. Half-assed. Fucking _dangerous._ And, yet... Sam still found it in himself to go along with it, to act as though this was the best idea he'd ever had.

In truth, it was all that he had left to go on.  
 

* * *  
 

_That's where you can reach me._

The words played back in Jimmy's head, slow and direct. Over and over. He could hear every rise an fall in Dean's voice, and, if he concentrated, Jimmy could even recall the look in the man's eyes as he spoke.

Dropping his head back against the pillow, Jimmy stared up at the ceiling. Grimaced.

Tried not to think about his cell phone, settled on the bedside table.

He just didn't know if he had it in him to dial the number.

_You take care of yourself._

He wasn't quite sure whether he knew how to that, anymore, either.  
 

* * *  
 

There was something to be said for being so goddamned right that it fucking _hurt,_ but, far be it from Sam to say it, out loud. (Really, he hadn't even acknowledged that the hunt was a bad idea, right from the get, so, what purpose would it serve?). Instead, he just bit down, grinding his teeth as Dean sped over another pot hole that sent him sideways, and into the passenger door. Hissing in pain as his bruised hip came into contact with the door handle, Sam threw his head back against the seat, and fought back a groan.

 _Stupid fucking idea, Winchester._ The next time that he had one like it, he hoped for all the world that someone would shoot _him._ That 'possible case of possession in Washington'? Yeah, there was no 'possible' about it. Maybe it hadn't been demonic in origin, but evil spirits still packed a hell of a punch. The one inside of Marissa Lethario most certainly had. Sam was the (barely) walking proof.

They'd had less than ten minutes with the bastard before it had seen fit to tackle Dean to the ground, catching _his_ sorry ass in the process. His ears were still ringing from the impromptu meeting that his head had taken with the floor, as a result.

Him and his bright fucking ideas.

“Jesus Christ!” he gasped, grabbing at his side as he threw a glare at his brother. “Are you _trying_ to run us off the road, or what?!”

“Well, for fuck's sake, Sam! If I knew where the Goddamn road _was!_ ” Dean's voice wavered, a bit, beneath the growl his words came out with. “The fog's so thick, I don't know grass from gravel.” It was a shitty excuse, they both knew, but it was no less the truth. Sam hadn't been able to see much for what was crunching beneath Baby's tires. For all he knew, they were in the midst of a rather precarious situation, skittering dangerously close to a cliff's edge, knocking stones over the side, in their path. Granted, he had more faith in his brother, than that (even if he wouldn't admit to it, aloud). Far be it from Dean to get them truly lost, but he hadn't exactly seemed to have his bearings, even from the beginning of this little venture. The fact was highlighted by the sudden exclamation of, “Shit!” that preceded Dean giving a harsh turn on the steering wheel.

Everything seemed to happen, at once.

Dean pulled right.

The car went left.

Sam dropped his head back against seat, once more, clenching his eyes shut, tight, as he finally groaned in pain.

“Shit, Sammy?” Dean shouted, eyes darting back and forth between his little brother, and the all-consuming mist that surrounded them. “Do I need to pull over?”

Carefully, Sam shook his head. “N-No,” he replied, blinking his eyes open, several times, in rapid succession. “Just... Just, try to find a hotel?” It wasn't that he was particularly looking forward to spending another night on the road, especially now that they had the bunker, but... Officially-speaking, who the hell knew how far away _home_ actually _was?_ They hadn't been able to _see_ a sign for the last three hours, and not so much as an unfamiliar pair of headlights had crossed their path.

All-in-all, yes, Sam was deeply concerned.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, rushed, panicky. “Yeah, yeah, first one I see, Sammy, I promise.” With a small jerk of the steering wheel, he narrowly avoided another uncomfortable pot hole. Sam glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye, swallowing, hard, as he took in the older man's disheveled appearance. There was dried blood beneath Dean's right eye, likely a smudge from his hand, but, whether it was Dean's own blood, or Sam's, they would never know. His jacket was torn open, just below the shoulder, along with his t-shirt, the result of a close call with a large kitchen knife, courtesy Mrs. Lethario's unwanted inhabitant. The stupid bastard had managed to get between the knife and Sam's own chest, saving Little Brother's hide, yet again. The thought left something twisting in Sam's gut, and it had absolutely nothing to do with concussion-induced nausea.

 _You know that feeling, Winchester,_ he taunted himself, mentally. _Once again, Dean puts it all aside, and keeps your sorry ass safe._

Sam winced, sucking in a breath as he shifted his weight off his uninjured side, settling evenly on his backside. Not the smartest move he could have made, granted, but... His ass had been verging on pins and needles. So far, so good.

“You good?” Dean asked, eyes leaving the road for a brief second to visually assess. Really, Sam wished he would cut that out. It was making him feel guilty. “Like I said, if-”

“Yeah, no, don't pull over,” Sam assured Dean, plastering on a less-than-convincing smile. “I'm good. I swear.”

With a quick nod, Dean let it drop, for which Sam was thankful. They fell into silence, stretching on so long that Sam found himself drifting off to sleep, his forehead pressed to the cool glass of the passenger window, when he was shaken back to an alert state. He turned his head, eyes wide, startled.

“Don't fall asleep on me, Sammy,” Dean ordered. “You know better than that. Come on.”

Unable to argue, Sam gave a few hard blinks, and leaned back in his seat. He focused his eyes on the road, finally able to see the dirt and gravel, again. The fog was lifting, returning his hope that they would soon be able to find a suitable place to spend the night. There was no denying how much they both needed it.  


* * *  
 

He was at his wit's end.

Pacing. That was what he'd been reduced to. Walking the length of the room, back and forth, tugging at his hair and fighting the urge to scream obscenities at the walls.

At the fucking _walls._

Oh, and, drinking. Apparently, that was going to help his situation, immensely.

 _One bottle, two bottle, three bottle,_ floor.

It was one phone call, one ridiculously simple little check-in that would solve all of his problems.

Then again, it wouldn't take much to make matters _worse._

Glaring up to the ceiling, he growled. “This is your fault, you bastard.” Really, he hoped that someone was getting some form of enjoyment from his misery. He sure as fuck wasn't.  
 

* * *  
 

The Cadillac Motel came into view somewhere close to dawn, a relieving piece of Heaven for Dean. He'd been fighting to keep Sam from closing his eyes for the last four hours, which was a chore while his own eyes felt ready to burn straight out of his skull. All he wanted, in that moment, was a hot shower, a cold drink, and a couple of hours of shut-eye. It wasn't to be, though. Sam needed checking out, and likely a bit of stitching up, in places. After that, he'd be watching him like a hawk. He'd taken a nasty knock to the skull, and it wasn't something that Dean was just going to brush off.

Pulling around to the closest parking space he could find, in proximity to their room, Dean parked Baby for the night, and climbed out. Ten yards, tops, he could swing that, no sweat. It was Sam he had to worry about. That giant lummox was about to make those ten yards feel like fifty.

Hefting Sam out of the car was no small task. Exhausted and bruised as Dean was, it was damn-near Herculean.

“ _Mmphh..._ ” Sam protested, as all of his weight settled against Dean's side. The older hunter rolled his eyes. If anyone should have been _groaning..._ “I can walk, on my own, Dean...”

Dean scoffed. “I'm sure you can, Sport. You're a big boy, now, after all.” He kept a tight hold on Sam's person, the entire time. This wasn't the time for Sam to start feeling spunky.

It was a careful trek, step by firmly planted step, taking about twice as long as it should have, but they finally reached the proper door. Dean maneuvered the key into the lock, opened the door, and trudged the last few steps to the first available bed. He eased Sam down onto it, making sure that he remained upright.

“I'm gonna' go grab the med kit,” he informed Sam, leaning down to look his brother in the eye. Well, so much as Sam was able to offer up his attentions. “You stay here, all right?” It was highly unlikely that Sam was going to budge, but, he had to at least try. “Don't try laying down, until I get back. I'll just be a minute.” Sam nodded, a bit, and that satisfied Dean, well enough. At least he had been heard. “All right. I'll be right back.” He patted Sam's knee, gently, and headed back out the still-open door, ignoring the sudden sense of deja vu that followed him out of the room.  
 

* * *  
 

_If you just need somebody to talk to..._

Fishing his phone out from under the bed – really, his aim _did_ suck, when he was drunk – he went to his contacts, and selected the one number there.

_You call me. Got it?_

Pressed _Send._

A calculated risk. He just wished there was somebody nearby to check his math.  
 

* * *  
 

Popping the trunk, Dean shuffled around a couple of shotguns, extra bottles of Holy Water, and a duffel bag of spare clothes, until he located their stash of medical supplies. Jesus Chris, how long had it been since they'd needed this thing, anyway? He'd have to check the dates on some of the ointments, once he was finished. A couple of things were likely in need of replacing.

How the hell had this happened? Sure, they were hunters, and this was the risk they took, but... _Every damned time_ that Sam got hurt, he tap danced over this, until he was in a full-blown bought of guilt. If he hadn't agreed to the damned hunt, in the first place... He'd known all along that Sam wasn't ready for something like this. Hell, he hadn't been much better off. Still, he'd played party to this sham of a plan, and this is where they'd landed.

_Again._

Dizzy with a sudden wave of nausea, Dean made to slam the trunk shut, angry with himself. Maybe, he needed to have his own head examined, in more ways than one. Before the trunk could make it all the way down, Dean thought better of it, opening it back up to retrieve the duffel bag of clothing. He set it on the ground, slinging the medical bag over his shoulder, and gave their belongings one last look. Pathetic, really, how their entire lives could be summed up to the contents of such a tiny space as this. Two men, and Baby. He scoffed, and smirked. Just fucking _sad._

A buzzing in his left front pocket gave him a startled jolt, as he reached in to fish out his cell phone. As this hour of the day, he couldn't imagine who the hell saw fit to dial him. Few people had ever had his phone number, to begin with, and an even smaller number were still around to use it. Checking the display, Dean didn't recognize the number, either. _Somebody who knows somebody who knows us,_ he figured, with a sigh. It would be a shame to disappoint them (kind of). The Winchesters were going to have to take down their shingle for a little while.

Flipping the receiver open, Dean pressed it to his ear. “Yeah?” Silence. Dean rolled his eyes. “Who's this?”

It was a moment longer, before an all-too-familiar voice slurred, “D-Dean?”

It was almost frightening, how quickly Dean's world stopped.

 


	6. No Danger Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Alcohol abuse, language, slash. You know what you're here for.
> 
> Author's Notes: I had to cut this one off, before I wanted to. However, had I not, ya'll would have been stuck with about eight thousand words to muddle through. So, I hope that you enjoy, regardless!

**Chapter Six**

**No Danger Here**

 

“You're gonna' go get 'im, though, right?” Sam asked, staring after his brother as if the man had lost his mind. There was no evidence to the contrary, leaving Sam feeling more-or-less confident in continuing with the assumption. Dean didn't answer, just continued to inspect the various components of their medical kit. He had the small trash basket from the bathroom pulled up beside his motel bed, chucking ointments and creams away, one after the other, when they turned up expired. After the fifth item, Sam raised his eyebrows. “Dean?”

“How about this one, huh, Sammy?” Dean began, holding up a bottle of acetaminophen. “Expired in December.” He paused, and scoffed. “Of 2004. Heh. I think we can get rid of that one.” Tossing the bottle into the basket, Dean moved on to the next. Still, there was no answer. Sam was beginning to lose his patience with the situation. “I think we need to think about finding a drug store, and-”

“No, Dean,” Sam snapped, enough irritation in his tone to cause Dean to look up. The expression on his brother's face was nothing short of surprised, but Sam felt himself severely lacking in the give-a-damn department. A deflecting Dean was an infuriating Dean, and, forgive him, but, he was sick of dealing with it. Especially when it dealt with the important things. “Stop... _playing around_ with the aloe cream, and focus.”

As expected, Dean shook his head. “Look, Sam... I don't wanna' go there. Okay?” He set the tube of cream back in the kit, a loose piece of thread catching his eye. He carefully tugged it from the bag, bit by bit, _tsk_ ing when the piece came out to be about six inches long. “Couldn't even suture a _paper cut,_ with that thing,” he grumbled, tossing it into the trash with the rest of the discarded items.

Again, Sam stared. “This coming from the _king_ of band-aid fixes.”

Finally, Dean jerked his head up, eyes sightly narrowed. “The hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Look, I know you, man,” Sam sighed, shifting on his night's bed until his back was better supported against the headboard. He fought back the urge to close his eyes, his head still spinning with a vengeance. Every word out of his mouth echoed through his skull, ringing upward, and leaving him dizzy. Still, he pressed on. “If _he_ called _you,_ it was because you gave him your number, right?” In the blink of an eye, Dean lowered his gaze back to the medical kit, a quiet grunt his only response. “And, whenever you give your number out, it's always with the promise of, 'If you need us, call, and we'll come running'.”

“So?”

“So, what the hell, Dean?” Sam insisted, jerking his head back away from the headboard. Oh, _fuck,_ did that hurt. “I _know_ you didn't just give him your number, and tell him never to call, again.” His brother's silence was damning, and Sam nearly groaned, in frustration. “If you'd just-”

“Okay, Sam, look,” Dean sighed, shifting in his seat as he moved the green bag from his lap, down to the floor. His tone, his movements... It had all the makings of a classic 'Dad Speech', something that Dean had been trying to make work on him for the past thirty years. “You're hurt. I'm not dragging you across state lines, just to go see what Jimmy's up to.”

Well, if that wasn't complete bullshit, and Sam would be _damned – again –_ if he bypassed the golden opportunity to call his brother out on it. “Dean, I'm fine.” At the withering glare he received, in return, the younger man rolled his eyes. It proved to be a poor decision, but, he played it off. “All right. I'll make it, anyway. Okay?” Dean's mouth was already open, and Sam held up a hand. “We're, what? Two hours from him? I'm not gonna' fall apart, on the way there.”

Dean scoffed. “You could barely sit, on the drive here, man. No way you're gonna' make it to Illinois.”

“Then, leave me here,” Sam challenged, running out of options with his brother, as a whole. Dean's eyebrows shot to his hair line. “Really, I'll be okay. A little pay-per-view, a little take-out, and, by the time you swing back to pick me up, I'll be right as-”

“Sammy,” Dean interrupted, “I swear to _God,_ if your next word is 'rain', I'm going to slug you.” There, Sam smirked, which only seemed to get Dean, worse. “I'm serious. What I'd come back to would be you, passed out on the floor, in a puddle of your own piss.” He mocked a smile in Sam's direction. “Ain't happening.”

The response died on Sam's tongue, for a moment. Was he that bad an actor? Sure, in the last few decades, Dean had seen just about every imaginable manner of cover-up that Sam had to offer. And, yeah, maybe he _was_ a bit worse-off than he was letting on, but... He'd had _worse,_ and he would manage this. He had to. He owed it to Dean.

“Besides,” Dean interrupted his thoughts, reaching back for the medical bag, tone passive. “I thought you were happy Jimmy was gone?”

Sam frowned. “What? What do you mean?”

“I saw him leave your room,” the older man continued, returning to avoiding Sam's gaze. “The day I drove him back to Pontiac...” A tight feeling settled in Sam's chest, and he was pretty certain it had nothing to do with the concussion. “He didn't look happy, either. You two had it out, pretty good, huh?”

Sam swallowed against the sudden dryness of his throat. “He... It was necessary,” Sam admitted, quietly. He wasn't wrong to say so, either. Maybe, it was the concussion. Maybe, it was being out on the road, or, wow, newsflash, maybe, just _maybe,_ it was the lack of alcohol running through his system, but, Sam knew how wrong he had been, in the past few weeks. He knew how badly he'd been fucking Dean over, even as he'd done it. Every choice of action, not eating, the excessive drinking, it all made Dean worry. And, every careless word, thrown at his brother like he was some... _God,_ like he was some _stranger,_ as if he was inconsequential. It was a new low for Sam, as a Winchester. As a man. As a brother to Dean.

And, really, that was saying something.

Trouble was, he didn't know how to _say it._ Lack of emotional communication aside, there was no way he could word the truth, and instantly smooth everything over.

Gathering what positivity he had left, Sam took as deep a breath as he dared, and slowly blew it back out, through his mouth. “Dean,” he began, again, “I'm glad Jimmy said what he did, _when_ he did. I needed to hear it.”

Dean shifted, a bit. “What, ah... What was it he said, exactly?”

Without thinking, Sam shook his head, then winced in discomfort. “That'll stay between me and Jimmy, but, suffice it to say... It was warranted.” That may not have included the death threat, but, he could appreciate the obvious protectiveness behind it. The fact, alone, that there was someone else so far in Dean's corner brought a sense of relief to Sam. Unfortunately, it was followed rather closely by a feeling of shame. Dean shouldn't have needed someone else in his corner. It was a post that Sam, himself, never should have vacated.

A moment ticked away in uninterrupted silence, Sam watching his brother, all the while. A bit of a frown had settled on Dean's face, as he stared down at the carpet, and Sam just knew that he wasn't buying into it. Not yet. Still, he knew that Dean wanted to answer Jimmy's call, despite his words to the contrary. Sam was going to make sure he did, because, damn it, he wasn't going to be the reason that Dean gave up _anything else._

“Go get him,” Sam said, firmly. Dean raised his eyes, an unsure look in them. Sam turned one corner of his mouth up, encouragingly. “We both know it's killing you, not going to find out what's wrong.”

Dean looked back down. “Sam...”

“Dean, stop arguing with me. Just once, let me win.” He counted it as a personal victory, when the older man was unable to hide a small smirk. Unfortunately, the feeling was short-lived.

“He existed, just fine, before we came into his life.” Dean stood from his seat, and moved to where his duffel bag was propped in a second chair. “He'll sort this out, just fine, without us.”

Sam didn't know whether to scream, or hit something.

 

...

 

Rain pattered against the window at the front of their room, keeping Dean wide awake. He watched the droplets land, before sliding down the glass, leaving behind smaller droplets to collect, and follow the same path. Some while ago, he'd focused in on the window, hoping that it would help him to find some semblance of sleep.

It hadn't.

Sam had fallen asleep, nearly two hours before, once he'd felt comfortable enough to do so. He'd been angry with Dean, and, really, Dean couldn't blame him. He was being stubborn, and foolish, and, had the situation been reversed, he would have been every bit as frustrated with his brother, as said brother was with him. Yes, Jimmy had reached out to him, and, yes, he _had_ told Jimmy to do so, but... Sam came first. Sam _had_ to come first. He didn't know how to do it, any other way.

Jesus Christ, was he really that bad? He lived and died by keeping his brother safe, that was no secret. He had for the kid's entire existence, beyond the age of six months. It wasn't something that bothered him, wasn't something that had the capacity to upset him. Yet, there he lay, silently cursing himself out for not keeping his word. For all the need he felt to look after Sam, Jimmy wasn't some run-of-the-mill nobody that needed his help.

Jesus _Christ,_ it shouldn't have been so difficult. Sam would sleep for hours, and he needed it. Sneaking away wouldn't be the cardinal sin his conscience was making it out to be.

If only that was more than half the problem.

Dean didn't know if he could handle seeing Jimmy, again. Well, it was less _seeing_ the man (which, for better, or worse, he was practically chomping at the bit to do), as it was the thought of having to watch as Jimmy left his life, again. Much as he wanted to deny it, he hadn't handled it very well, the last time. He was still a jumbled mess of emotions, which he hadn't been able to quiet with alcohol for nearly three days. That was a sobering thought, on its own – no pun intended. Clearly, he still didn't have a handle on himself.

Turning his eyes from the window, Dean allowed his gaze to fall on the back of his brother's head. Sam had pushed, oh, he'd pushed with all the energy he'd had in him. It counted, Dean wanted to tell him how much he wanted to listen, to stop with this attempt at justifying himself, one way or another, and just... do what _he_ wanted. It wouldn't take much. Shoes, keys, jacket. Sam would know. Sam would _understand._

Dean reached under his pillow, pulling out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he selected the proper options, and typed out a simple message.

_What room are you in?_

 

...

 

_“Jimmy?” Dean asked, his voice no longer as steady as he would have liked. But, what did he expect? This was That Call, the one he'd been so sure would never be made. “Wow, man, everything okay?”_

_There was a bitter laugh at the other end of the line. “Ahhh... No. No, I'm pretty sure everything's fucked, actually.”_

_Dean blinked. He wasn't sure whether he'd ever heard Jimmy used that word, before. “What happened?”_

_“It...” Jimmy took a deep, shaky breath, which soon broke apart in a stifled sob. “It didn't go well, Dean...” Dean swallowed, feeling something twist in his gut. The feeling intensified, as Jimmy continued to cry. “She didn't w-want to see me, and... And, Claire...”_

_“Your daughter?” Dean asked. “Did you see her?”_

_“No,” came the pitiful answer. Jimmy sniffled. “She wasn't home, and Amelia didn't... Wouldn't tell her, anyway...” The man was tumbling over his words, and Dean closed his eyes. Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers, he sighed. “D-Dean?” Jimmy asked, hesitant. Dean shook his head._

_“I'm here,” he assured the other, shifting from foot to foot. “You been drinkin'?” Jimmy scoffed, a bit, and Dean opened his eyes back up. “I'm serious. Where are you?”_

_It took a moment, a bit of rustling around occurring on Jimmy's end, before he responded. “The Astoria Hotel.”_

_Dean paused, Jimmy's answer sending his mind back. The name sounded familiar, but, he couldn't place it, off-hand. For all of the random spots he and Sammy had stayed, the last thirty years, there was no telling if it was a place they'd once rested their heads._

_“I'm sorry,” Jimmy mumbled, when Dean didn't answer. “I didn't know who else to call.” The words were quiet, sad, and Dean read them for what they really were._ I don't have anyone else to call. _While his heart threatened to do a funny dance in his chest, at the thought, the rest of Dean's rationality reigned it in._

_“No, no, it's fine,” he said, at last, glancing back toward the motel room. “Listen, let me call you back in an hour, okay? I've gotta' take care of something, and it can't wait.”_

_“Uh, yeah,” Jimmy agreed, words heavy with skepticism. He didn't believe Dean. The idea didn't sit well with the younger man. “Thanks for listening, anyway.”_

_“I'll call you back,” Dean promised, in a rush. “Hang out, get yourself something to eat, from room service, and I'll be back on the line with you, before you know it.”_

_There was a long pause, before Jimmy sighed. “All right. I won't go anywhere.”_

_A second later, Dean pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the display screen in concern._ Call Ended. _He felt like a jerk, without question, cutting Jimmy off in such a hurry. But, Sam needed his attention. When he could give Jimmy the proper focus he deserved, he'd dial him back._

_He'd promised, after all._

 

...

 

The Astoria Hotel came into view, before Dean could even say that he was properly in the town of Pontiac. The blinding neon sign brought with it several disturbing feelings, not a damn one of which he could place. Dean took several deep breaths, trying to shake the eery feeling that followed him inside. It was almost as if someone was watching him, their eyes on his back, the entire way from the car. Just nerves, he figured. Nerves, on top of what were probably bad, _bad_ memories. Nothing more, nothing less.

There was a man behind the front desk, with dark hair, an obnoxious blue tie, and a frown that spoke of a long night's shift. When the man caught sight of him – Gene, the tag on his jacket read – there were dark circles under his eyes. Not for the first time, Dean considered himself thankful to have avoided a menial, nine-to-five, forty-hour week from hell.

“Can I help you?” Gene asked, in a sigh. To his credit, he tried to put on a smile. Dean wasn't about to hold him to it, one way or another. “A single?”

“Actually, uh, Gene,” Dean replied, resting his hands on the desk top, tapping his fingers against the marble. “I'm looking for a friend of mine. Called me, and asked me to meet him, here...” Immediately, Gene looked skeptical. Dean took it for a good moment to lay it on. “Name's Jimmy. I know he's in room two-oh-nine. Called me up, a bit ago, drunker'n a skunk.” He watched the frown return to Gene's face, and grimaced. “I take it he rings a bell?”

“Several,” Gene grumbled. “He's been in that room for days. He comes and goes, but, he tends to come back... _inebriated._ ” The word came out, tight, as if it was the nicest selection of phrase he could come up with. “Tonight, he came back with a bottle. Which, I might add, the people in room two-ten were _none_ too impressed to hear shatter against the joining wall.”

Dean's eyebrows rose. “Did they hear anything else?”

Gene huffed, a bit. “They complained he was screaming, something about someone being an... An...” Gene looked both ways, before leaning toward Dean, and whispering, “ _An asshole._ ” He righted himself, smoothing out an imagined rumple in his shirt. “Yelling about things being ruined... That he'd given everything, and, such.” Gene shrugged, a bit. “Bad break-up, or something, I figured. We had to move two-ten to another _floor,_ they were so angry.”

Back across the desk, Dean sighed, fingers reaching up to rub at his forehead. He'd known Jimmy would be bad-off, if the situation at home went sour, but, he honestly hadn't expected _this._ (To be fair, he hadn't expected Amelia to turn her husband away, in the first place. But, it had been six years... He could see where she'd be angry with Jimmy for ditching her, to hitch a ride for the fancy world of celestial intent).

“What direction is two-oh-nine?” Dean asked, mentally preparing himself to deal with a fresh mess. Gene gave him directions – take the elevator up, end of the hall, on the right – and Dean headed off, with his thanks.

There was no one else in the lobby, as Dean passed through. He encountered one older lady, on his way to the elevator, but she said nothing to him, minding her own business, while Dean did the same. For that, alone, he was thankful. There was a small dog tucked under her arm, and he was still a bit skittish around those little ankle biters. But, that was for him to know.

The elevator closed with a quiet _ding,_ Dean focusing his eyes on the glowing numbers above the doors. With a rumble, the contraption came to life, beginning a slow ascent. Dean felt his stomach drop, briefly. Damned nerves. Tipping his head back against the far wall, Dean took the time to think, watching as the numbers slowly climbed.

_One._

How had Jimmy managed to get so bad? That was his primary focus. It had only been a couple of days. Sure, once or twice, Dean had managed to swing himself into a full-blown bender within a matter of hours, but... Damn it, Jimmy had been prepared for this, hadn't he? All the years that had gone by, it would have been a wonder for Amelia to still be waiting around, hoping for the father of her child to return home. Christ, and, Claire. He did feel badly that Jimmy hadn't been able to at least see his daughter. Hell, he felt like shit, every time he thought about Jimmy being rejected – _again –_ from the life he had been torn from. It hadn't even been a fair fight, the last time he'd accepted Castiel in.

_Two._

All right, he had been completely unfair, himself, for how he'd first approached this situation. _Of course,_ Jimmy had the right to fall apart on himself. He'd given everything he had, within himself, to protect his family – to _save_ his _daughter –_ and, now, he couldn't be with them. His own choice, or not, Jimmy had been royally screwed in this deal. Worse, Dean couldn't help but to place the blame squarely on Castiel. Fair was fair, and Cas had done such a fan _tas_ tic job of owning up to his mistakes, this time around.

_Hello, sarcasm, my old friend._

_Ding._

The doors slid open, and Dean finally looked back down from the counter, to find himself staring at a plain, dark brown hotel door. Black numbers over a cheap-looking pink heart proclaimed the room '202'. He swallowed against the unfriendly feeling creeping up his throat.

_This is it,_ he told himself, squaring his shoulders. _Steady on, Winchester._

He stepped out of the elevator, which seemed to be in something of a hurry to close, behind him. Paying it little mind, Dean advanced down the hallway, eyes seeking out the next door, and the next set of numbers. _204._ Glancing to his right, he spotted 205. Pattern noted, he slowly made his way passed 206, pausing, briefly, in front of 207. Something felt... familiar, about that number. He'd seen it before, he was pretty sure. Again, he shook the feeling off. It didn't look like the most reputable hotel in the city, what with it's run-down structure, and sketchy carpeting. One of any number of girls could have-

“Jesus Christ.” Suddenly, it was difficult to breathe. How hadn't he remembered this number? This place? Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to regain his composure. The want to look over his shoulder made so much sense. Six years. _Six years ago,_ this was the place that he'd... Sam, Ruby. _Castiel._ This was the god damned place that brought his life back together, at the same time it had turned it upside down.

That unfriendly feeling started to taste a lot like bile.

He wasn't a big believer in coincidence. No, for a Winchester, coincidences meant bad business. And, bad business usually lead to someone dying on them. Typically, it was one or the other of themselves, but, Sam wasn't there. He had to take a moment to repeat that, if only in his mind. Sam. Wasn't. There.

_No,_ he realized, momentarily horrified. _Jimmy is._

Oh, Christ, he was being unreasonable. He was in Pontiac, which wasn't exactly chock-full of bed and breakfast types. Jimmy's hometown. Where else would the man have gone to spend a couple of nights? With that thought in-mind, Dean tucked his worries aside, as best he was able, and continued down the hallway.

Room 209 came into view, and something tugged, uncomfortably, in Dean's abdomen. Oh, how he wanted to turn tail, and haul ass back the way he came. Nothing good would come of that, in the end, though. He would have wasted time, _and_ gas, for absolutely no reason, at all. Besides, he'd promised Jimmy, sworn that he'd be there for him, if and when the need came. Regardless of whether he'd ever expected that day to come... Dean Winchester was bound by honor. A nervous stomach wasn't going to interfere with that.

Stopping in front of the proper door, Dean took a deep breath, and raised his fist to knock.

 

...

 

_Dean isn't coming._

Letting out a shaky sigh, Jimmy stared up at the ceiling above his head. Tried not to cry. _Again._ Fuck, he hadn't cried, so much, since he was a child. Loss, the one thing that seemed to be able to trigger his need to shed a few tears. He'd had about enough, _thanks,_ to whatever deity was listening.

After all this time, he suspected that there wasn't one paying any attention, whatsoever.

_He's not coming for you, so, cut the shit._

Jimmy clenched his jaw, closing his eyes against the burn forcing its way in to them. True as it likely was, Jimmy wasn't too keen on being mocked by his own conscience.

_How disappointing._

Especially when that conscience still sounded like Castiel. His own words, just, in that feather-coated bastard's voice.

“Fuck you, Castiel,” he slurred, throwing an arm over his still-closed eyes. Hopefully, he could drown the noise out. Or, maybe, fall asleep. Sleep sounded nice. Maybe, an eternal one, this time. It didn't matter, one way or another. He was going to die here, eventually, anyway, and he didn't have anything pressing to wake back up for. Not anymore.

Everyone had to be tired of his bullshit, by now. Jimmy knew that he'd had it up to about _there,_ with himself. Needy. Pathetic. He was no good to anyone, anymore, not as James Novak. Castiel's vessel, now, there was something to be said for _that_ version of himself. Nobody had to deal with Jimmy, that way. No one had to see him for what he was, an ad space salesman, desperate to return to his family. Desperate for someone to need him, to want him around. Just... _Desperate._

Wincing, at the thought, Jimmy forced himself to sit back up. He grabbed a bottle, and twisted off the cap, which he promptly tossed over his shoulder. There wasn't much liquid left in the bottle, just a couple of swallows, but, it would do the trick. He hoped, at least, as he tipped the bottle up, drinking down the remnants of his vodka with little trouble. Some time, the day before, it had all started to taste like water. It was all the same to Jimmy. All it meant was, it went down, easier.

Once the bottle was sufficiently drained to empty, Jimmy set it back down on the floor. He sat back up, an ungentlemanly belch accompanying the movements. Even that, something he would have once taken for rude, just didn't phase him, much. He had no one to stand on ceremony for. It had taken him two days to remember that. Now, he felt himself unlikely to forget.

Glancing up, Jimmy spotted his cell phone, perched on the nightstand. The top was flipped up, the screen having long-since gone black, but he could recall what he would see, if he reached forward to press one of the keys.

_What room are you in?_

That was all that Dean's last text – his only one – had read. Jimmy had sent the reply, _209,_ and hadn't heard a word, since. Read a word, since. Either way. It had been... Well, he'd lost track of the time, about half-way through that vodka, but, he was fairly confident that it had been some hours since he'd sent that message. Either Dean had fallen asleep, or forgotten, or, hell, for all that Jimmy knew, he was making a point of ignoring him. Seemed plausible. Like everyone else, Dean had surely lost his need for the human who was left wearing the face of his best friend.

And, really, wasn't that just ridiculous? It was _his fucking face,_ and, yet, Jimmy felt guilty for keeping it. His face, his body, his mind, and his god damned clothes. Yet, he'd surrendered his clothing, in Kansas. He'd let his mind run away with him, taking his body along with it, to drown its sorrows. And, now, _now,_ he couldn't bare to look at himself, in the mirror.

Apparently, neither could anybody _else._

Standing to his feet, Jimmy swayed a couple of steps toward the bathroom. It was disgusting in there, he tried not to remind himself. A layer of dust covered every surface in sight, and he cringed at the thought of those surfaces, the nooks and crannies that he _couldn't_ see. While he had showered several times, since his arrival, he'd spent the bulk of the time worrying over who had done what within the confines of the bathtub. (Moreover, if he shined a black light over the wall, how many heart attacks was he bound to have?).

Mm, another shower sounded about heavenly, right then. His muscles felt tight, had ever since he'd woken up on the floor, that afternoon. The crick in his neck had mostly disappeared, after the first shower, but his back felt like someone had tried to turn him into a human knot. Sub-human. How would he even classify himself, now? Shaking his head, Jimmy let the inquiry slip away. A worry for another day.

Another damning, miserable day.

Jimmy had the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone, his fingers fumbling with the third, when he heard the knock at the door. Immediately, he rolled his eyes, skyward.

“It was a god damned cap!” he shouted, spinning on his heel with better balance than seemed possible. Stalking over toward the door, Jimmy felt his face heat. If it was the damned desk boy, _one more fucking time,_ he was going to put his fist through the kid's teeth. “You _moved_ everybody else.” Reaching forward, he gripped the doorknob, and yanked it open. “There's no one here to fu-.” The rest of the sentence died on his tongue, as he stared, in disbelief. “D-Dean?”

Looking back at him from across the threshold, Dean's expression shifted from surprise, worry, and settled on a hesitant smile. “Well, hey, there, handsome.”

He had to be dreaming. Oh, hell, there was no way... Was there? He watched, eyes wide, as Dean tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Uncomfortable. Unsure, and concerned, but, _there._ Right there, in front of Jimmy. It was what he'd wanted. What he'd prayed for. Yet, he couldn't find it in himself to form a coherent word.

Thankfully, Dean cleared his throat, taking that pressure away, for a second. “So, uh... Care to invite a guy in?”

 


	7. Do Unto Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no real excuse. I lost touch with the series, for some while. But, I'm still so attached to this idea... Well, I hope you enjoy. :)

Dean remained patient, stood in the doorway, like an uninvited guest, while Jimmy seemed to... Well, he wasn't really all that sure what was up with the guy, but, he was more than willing to give him a couple of minutes to work through whatever it was that was making Jimmy stare at him like he was a prom date that had shown up in torn jeans, and an Alice Cooper t-shirt. (He remembered that look, all-too-well).  
  
When Jimmy finally tore his gaze away, he nodded, and paced back a step, to allow Dean in to the hotel room. Dean gave a weak smile, entering the room with careful footfalls over the carpet. If the neighbours had already been bitching about Jimmy, he didn't want to add a stomping complaint to the list.

“So,” Dean began, eyes searching the wall to his right for any signs of broken glass. They weren't difficult to spot. There were shards sticking up from the carpet, a few leaning against the wall, warping the images on the wallpaper. He nearly sighed, but managed to keep his tone pleasant. “I hear you've been keeping this place busy, 'uh? Raisin' a little hell?” He glanced over his shoulder, before turning to face Jimmy, fully.

Closing the door, Jimmy shook his head. “I've... Yeah, I've probably managed to piss off half the guests in this part of the hotel,” he admitted. He raised his head, just enough to look at Dean with shame and guilt dancing in his eyes. “I'm sorry for that, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. “Hell, it's not me you should be apologizing to, y'know?” Jimmy closed his eyes, tightly, with a small nod. Oh, that couldn't be good. Dean sighed. “What happened, Jimmy? I mean, I know you talked about it, on the phone, but...” He had the feeling there was more to it, that he'd only been given the bare minimum of the tale. From the stricken look on Jimmy's face, he wasn't going to get much more than that.

Silence stretched on for a few beats longer than Dean was comfortable with. He looked around the rest of the room, taking in the sad sight that included the rumpled bed linens, the upturned chair, and, damn, there was a funky smell going on in there, somewhere. Probably mold, under the carpet, if he had to venture a guess. One thing was for certain, however. Looked like he'd arrived, just in time. There was no way he was letting Jimmy spend another night in that room.

“Have you been eating?” Dean tried, instead.

Jimmy sighed. “Dean...”

“No, man, I'm serious. Have you eaten? You've been here for over a week, and I don't see any snacks layin' around.” He looked at Jimmy, expectantly. The other man fidgeted, a bit, wringing his hands together. The action gave Dean a good look at Jimmy's knuckles, which appeared to have been scraped over, pretty good. Various thoughts of how said scrapes had come to be danced through Dean's mind, none of them painting him a pretty picture.

“I... I go to the little diner, around the corner,” Jimmy finally said, pulling Dean back to their conversation. “Once or twice, a day. Usually.”

That answer didn't quite satisfy Dean, but, it was better than hearing the guy hadn't been looking after himself, at least somewhat. “Where'd you get the money for that?” Jimmy's shoulders seemed to relax, a little, and Dean smirked. “I trust you didn't knock over Pontiac Federal?”

Jimmy smiled, a bit, himself. “No, no... Nothing like that.” He glanced to his left, Dean following his gaze to a wallet that sat on the night table. “Castiel hadn't managed to lose my wallet, apparently, after all this time. And, Amelia didn't cancel my accounts, either. I don't know if she was... hoping...” Jimmy inhaled, deeply, eyes beginning to water. “Hoping that... That I'd still be out there, or, if...” Dropping his head, Jimmy let out a sob. “Damn it, Dean!” he cried. “She didn't even want me to see Claire!”

“Hey,” Dean muttered, moving forward to place his hands on Jimmy's shoulders. He'd been prepared for this outburst, really, he had. Maybe, it was manifesting a bit sooner than he'd expected – and, yet, not – but, he still pressed his thumbs into Jimmy's shoulders. “Hey, look at me.” It took a moment, but Jimmy finally brought his eyes up to meet Dean's, that sad, shamed expression back in them. Dean's heart broke for the other man, all over, again. “It's gonna' be okay, all right? We're gonna' get you out of here, get you some decent food, and a damned coffee, and, everything's gonna' be fine.”

Slowly, Jimmy looked up, the rest of the way. A frown settled over his mouth, as he attempted to keep from losing himself, any further. “Look, Dean, this place... I don't have anywhere else to go, right now.” Dean tried not to flinch, for the stale booze on Jimmy's breath. “It's going to be a little while, before I figure this out...”

“Nuh-uh,” Dean interjected, smiling at the confused look in Jimmy's eyes. “You're coming back to the bunker, with Sam and me. There's plenty of room. Lots of things to read. Oh, and, I'll make sure I lock the booze away from you and Sammy, both.” He was trying to tease, really, he was. All he managed to do was cause Jimmy to look away.

Before Dean could right his wrong, Jimmy asked, “Where is Sam?”

The question threw Dean, a bit. He removed his hands from Jimmy's shoulders, and straightened his back. “He's, uh... He's about two hours off, in a motel.” A pang of guilt hit him, square in the chest. He was quite sure he was building himself up to look like the worst brother in the history of time. “Sleeping off a concussion. Couple of bruised ribs.”

Jimmy blinked, surprised. “What the hell happened?”

“Frisky spirits, under the pale moonlight,” Dean supplied. When Jimmy gave him an odd look, he sighed. “We went on a hunt, got knocked around... Sam put himself in front of me, as usual, and smacked his head.” Running his fingers through his hair, Dean tried to fight that guilt, tried to remember that Sam was the one who had pushed and pushed, until he'd finally caved, and left for Pontiac. Sam didn't blame him, wasn't going to blame him, and, hell, he'd taken worse hits, over the years.

Okay, he was going to stop that little pep talk, right there. All he was doing was making himself feel worse.

“Dean... All that...” The words were quiet, and Dean turned his attention back to Jimmy. The man looked uncomfortable, if slightly disbelieving. “And, you still came for me?”

There it was, the truth of the matter sitting right in front of his face. For a hot moment, he was unsure of how to say it, how to admit to Jimmy that he nearly hadn't left the motel. How close had he been to just letting the man slip away? Like so many others. But, he couldn't say it. Because, for the all the 'nearly didn't's and the 'almost had's... He was still there. Settled, Dean gave a grin, more confident than he felt. “Well, yeah,” he replied, taking a step closer, leaving less than an arm's length of space between them. “Of course, I came to get you.” He smirked, a bit. “Couldn't abandon my Al, now, could I?”

For a brief moment, Jimmy appeared to be on the verge of another sob. It caught Dean by surprise when, without further warning, he could feel Jimmy's hands on his arms, and taste traces of vodka on his lips. Eyes wide, Dean tried to escape the feeling of, _God, that feels amazing,_ long enough to pull back from Jimmy.

It was a terrible thing to do, especially judging from the pained look that came over Jimmy's face. "Dean," he groaned, rushing to turn away. "I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Whoa, hey, easy," Dean jumped in, arms stretched out to grab onto Jimmy's shoulders. He felt the older man flinch, under his hands, and sighed. Gently, carefully, he turned Jimmy around to face him, once again. Blue eyes glanced up, hesitant, and Dean smiled. "It's all right," he murmured, brushing a thumb over the edge of Jimmy's jawline. "It's gonna' be all right."

The two stared at one another, for a long moment, neither saying anything, not asking. Not speaking. Dean's smile fell, little by little, until, seconds later, when he found himself with arms full of ad time salesman.

It was so ridiculous, he nearly laughed. Nearly.

"Shhh," Dean soothed, brushing his hand over Jimmy's hair, in a gentle fashion that hadn't been seen since the days of Sammy's scraped knees. Arguments with Dad. Nightmares. Well, he reasoned, this could easily qualify for the last. What Jimmy had been through, over the years, had been nothing short of hell, despite the origin of his - for lack of a better term - parasite. Used, abused, and left all alone. It was awful. Difficult to believe. Part of him... Part of him wanted to scream up at Castiel, and ask him why, what the trembling, sobbing person in his arms had done to deserve a treatment so foul.

Part of him hated Castiel for this.

Parts of him seemed to hate Castiel, for a lot of different things.

"It's all right, Jimmy," he continued, wrapping his arms around Jimmy's shoulders, pulling him in, close. "Hey, I know it looks bad... Hell, I know it's probably the worst it's ever been, but..." It was all he could do, not to choke. He was a liar, he was scum, he'd nearly abandoned this man, and, yet...  
  
And, yet...

"I'm here, now," he continued, voice hardened, convictions steeled. He placed his chin atop Jimmy's head, and closed his eyes, as he sighed through his nose. "I'm here, and, I'm not going' anywhere... I won't let you go through it, alone, Jimmy. I promise."  
  
And, there it was. It wasn't some over-the-top, sappy-ass declaration of devotion. It wasn't the apology that Jimmy so desperately deserved, either, but, what it was... What it was counted for so much more. It was the truth, something else, yet, that Jimmy had, a long time coming, and it still couldn't be seen as enough. Nothing could properly atone for the last six years, the beatings that the once-vessel had fallen victim to, the wear and tear of an already broken body, subjected to more of the same, time and again, and, for what? For Dean fucking Winchester, that's what. For Dean fucking Winchester and all of the wholly unnecessary bullshit that came along with being involved with him. He was the cause of all of this, of all of it. If Dean had just stuck to keeping his mouth shut, and left Sam alone, he never would have had to have been dragged up from Hell, in the first place. If his sorry, stupid ass hadn't been bent on playing fucking hero, all the damned time, he might have been able to spare Jimmy... all of this.  
  
So much. There was so much that he could have changed, and, oh-so-easily, too.  
  
He had no right to be here. Jesus Christ, the mess that he'd caused. And, now, Jimmy... Poor, sweet, innocent little Jimmy... He was being left to answer for it.  
  
Unconsciously, he held on to Jimmy, a little bit tighter.  
  
Jimmy stilled, before glancing up. "Dean?" he asked, voice rough,  but quiet, the sounds of a man who had screamed himself hoarse, and cried himself out. A man who was tired, and worn down, and lost. How could he help make that right? How, in a million of Cas' fucking lifetimes, could Dean ever hope to make it right? As he met the other man's blue eyes, once more, Dean felt his chest tighten, and stir, uncomfortably. It wasn't right, it wasn't okay, and he couldn't take another second of looking at Jimmy, like that.  
  
He kissed him, instead.  
  
In hindsight, he should have done it, a whole lot sooner, especially if Jimmy's apparent enthusiasm for the situation was anything to go by. He'd grabbed Dean's belt loops, the second that their lips had made contact. He was pulling them closer, steadily, despite there being no more distance for them to close. He was insistent. Determined. That, combined with the rough scratch of Jimmy's unshaven face, was causing an immediate stirring, in other regions. He needed to stop it, he really did, before it go too heavy, before they went too far, but, there was something about it that left Dean hesitant. It wasn't the desperate way that he was being kissed, no, nor was it the equally-desperate way that he was kissing back. It wasn't the take-charge way that Jimmy had snaked his hands under his jacket, at the neck, and was now sliding it down from his shoulders. It wasn't even the fact that this was only his second time, in so intimate a contact, with another man.  
  
He just... didn't want to stop.  
  
Dean knew this body, had accompanied it into the throes of drunken ecstasy, once before. But, the person inside of said body, well... That was all-new territory, in and of itself. He'd never been this deep in a near-frantic kiss with Jimmy. He'd never taken Jimmy into his arms, had him under his hands, his mouth. Christ, he'd never been so willing to surrender to Jimmy, before. He'd thought about this, for days, weeks, woken up from a dream in the middle of Jimmy taking him, fucking him, on more than one occasion. And, he'd hesitated about seeing the man, why, again? His wife had moved on, thrown him away. Later, he'd feel badly for the daughter, but, right now...  Right now, their loss was his fucking gain.  
  
No, he didn't care how bad of a human being that made him, either. So far as he was concerned, this was a-okay.  
  
That thought drove him closer, hands creeping up to grasp the sides of Jimmy's head, tongue diving deeper, swiping more insistantly at the inside of the the other man's mouth. Jimmy's thumbs snuck beneath Dean's shirt, grazing against the skin above his hips, and Dean couldn't help the faint moan that passed from his mouth, to Jimmy's. The knot of tension that had engulfed him seemed to uncoil, with an agonizing slowness, as Jimmy's fingertips traced across his abdomen, over skin and muscle that had lost a small measure of definition over the years. Dean couldn't find it in himself to feel embarrassed over that, though, letting go of Jimmy just long enough to let his jacket slide from where it had bunched, at his elbows, to fall on the floor.  
The sound of fabric to carpet was so delightful, it left him wondering how long it would take him to get all of Jimmy's clothes to join the started pile.  
  
The cool of the night air hit Dean's bare arms, a stark relief to how overheated the rest of his body seemed to have become. He managed to tug off his own shirt, before sealing his mouth back over Jimmy's. Oh, this was such a bad, bad idea, but... Dean didn't give a damn. Not for the way the other man's hands were sliding over his abdomen, skin on skin, leaving him drawing in a sharp breath.  
  
He was going back to Hell, he just knew it. Somewhere, there was a crime in this. It already felt too damned good.  
  
Before Dean knew it, they were atop the mattress, unworried for how clean the sheets likely were not, not caring how many bodies had previously joined together over the bed springs. All that mattered were two saliva-slick fingers buried inside of him, urging deep groans of appreciation from his throat, as their owner busied himself with nipping red marks across Dean's chest.  
And, to think, he'd nearly stayed with Sam, and missed out on this.  
  
Jimmy removed his fingers, pulling the younger man from his straying thoughts. A hard kiss, a deep groan, and Jimmy was easing his way into Dean's body. The move was equal parts careful, and eager... Patient, and rushed... Dean tried to remember to keep his breathing even, to fucking relax, but, damn it, every slickened slide of skin, every stuttered breath from Jimmy just felt so... amazing. Every look from the man above him, every whispered praise was music to his ears. It was almost foreign, this idea that he could feel so incredible, just watching another person finding pleasure.  
  
No. Not another person.  
  
Jimmy.  
  
"Dean," Jimmy moaned, fists pressed to the mattress, at either side of Dean's head. "Still so... God, fuck, you're still so tight."  
  
The words sent a little tingle dancing along the base of Dean's spine. He concentrated, and tightened himself around Jimmy. The desperate groan that left him had Dean fighting back a grin. Admittedly, that felt pretty damned good, too.  
  
Strong fingers wrapped around his erection, forming a fist that Dean immediately bucked up into. The rhythm was uneven, and off-beat, between the motion of Jimmy's hand, and the length of manhood slipping in and out of him. It was driving him closer to the edge, and, from the sounds coming from Jimmy, and the pulsating of his erection, his partner wasn't terribly far behind him.  
Jimmy leaned down, to drag his teeth over Dean's pulse point, and the hunter was done. With a strangled cry, Dean came over the slide of Jimmy's fingers, splashes catching his own abdomen. Just as he suspected, less than five strokes later, Jimmy hips stalled, and Dean was filled with the most exquisite heat. He remembered it, the feeling of perfect warmth creeping into his body.  
Christ, he was almost too happy to feel it, again.  
  
Jimmy found his way back out of Dean, collapsing onto the bed, beside him. Silence settled over them, save for the gasps of lost breath. Between one sound, and the next, Dean worried for that awkward moment to arrive. Would Jimmy realize what he had done? Would he get up, grab his clothes, and head for the hills? It was what any sane person would do, in Dean's presence. And, damn it, why did he have to be such a fucking woman, and worry about shit, like this? Why couldn't he just enjoy the aftermath of something that was long overdue?  
  
Because, he couldn't help but to remind himself, Jimmy is married. He's drunk, and married, and you just took advantage of the nicest guy you have ever met.  
  
Shit, what should he do? Get up, and leave? The deed was done, but, there was still time to save face, to get out, before it got ugly. Before Jimmy-... Oh.  
  
Jimmy stretched an arm around Dean's waist, curling up to his side, with an exhausted sigh. "I missed you," he whispered, almost hesitant, sending something to fluttering about, in Dean's chest. All concern for the situation immediately dissolved, and Dean turned to his side. He found Jimmy gazing up at him, half-awake, and couldn't help but smile.  
  
"Yeah," he murmured, in reply, reaching a hand up, to stroke his thumb over Jimmy's cheek. "I missed you, too."  
  
There it was, another truth that Dean found himself unafraid to admit. And, when Jimmy smiled... Well, that sight made it all worthwhile.  
  
* * *  
  
Two Cokes. A Snickers bar. Half a slice of gas station pizza. It wasn't ideal, but, it would have to do. It was all going to come spewing back up, in a combined mess, later on, anyway. So, what did it really matter?  
  
There was never anything on the televisions, in motel rooms. Repeats, and movies two or three times his age. He'd seen them all - hell, Dean could probably quote them, from memory - but... _Eh.  
_  
And, really, if that wasn't just the sum of this entire trip?  
  
Settling on something black and white, Sam reclined back, against the headboard of the bed. He couldn't make out one actor from the next, for all the static. Words were... garbled, at best, but, again, it would have to do.  
  
A beer would have done, nicely, too. A little whiskey would have gone, better. Something to dull the edges of his concussion. Brightest idea ever? Not even close. But, it might settle the sudden on-set of the jitters that he was experiencing. He'd had concussions, aplenty, in his lifetime. Certainly, more than his fair share. There was no reason to be so nervous. Had he ever been this nervous, during a concussion? He would have to ask Dean. Of course, Dean wasn't around, to ask. (Big surprise).  
  
Ouch. That actually sounded pretty bitter.  
  
Gods, Above, he needed a drink.  
  
Tossing his pizza back onto the paper plate, Sam tried not to gag. It didn't even _taste_ right. What had he been thinking?  
  
Well, of course, he knew what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking that Dean would kick his ass, if he knew Sam had spent x-amount of days, holed up in a hotel room, not looking after himself. And, if he came back, to find him nursing a bottle, instead of his wounds? Yeah, Dean had already been pretty clear, for his position on _that_ topic. The rational part of him supposed he couldn't blame his brother for the opinion. After all, Sam would likely have the same to say - again - if Dean started back up with his liquid romance. It was just that, Dean... _Dean..._ Yes, okay, Dean had been through the worse of their traumatic childhoods, he'd carried the burdens of their father's mistakes, and, by rights, he _had_ to be the more fucked-up one, of the two of them. But... There was also the _present,_ to consider, the full-out, in-his-face horrors of the daily basis. Again, yes, Dean saw much of the same things. He fought every evil that Sam did, battled every force of darkness that crossed their paths. They did it, _together.  
_  
Except for, you know, that one time they _hadn't.  
_  
Shaking his head, Sam fought down another bite of pizza. He was doing it, again, he knew, letting his fears and self-loathing get the better of him, in the most hypocritical way he could muster. If he took a moment to look at it, logically, the smart move was the one he had already made. Food, drink, and rest. _Plenty_ of rest. Once he could safely have a bit of uninterrupted sleep, and the shaking in his hands stopped, he'd be just fine.  
  
His stomach gave another, nervous turn. Yeah. _Just fine.  
_  
* * *  
  
_"It's done," Sam muttered, voice shaking, teeth chattering with what looked to be a bone-deep cold. "It's done. It's done."  
_  
_"Shhh," Dean tried to sooth, arm wrapping around his brother's waist. He tugged Sam's arm over his shoulders, the better to steady him, and cart him back to the car. He could feel the trembling, deep into his own side. Shit, the kid was a bundle of nerves, all over. "It's okay, Sammy. It's okay. We're gonna' get you out of here, okay?" Cas was waiting, just outside, keeping his eyes peeled. Ready to make a break back to the bunker.  
_  
_They just had to make it out.  
_  
_Sam took a couple of deep breaths, and took a sluggish step, his legs still not co-operating. His voice, though, came through, much more steadily. "It's done, Dean."  
_  
_Glancing at Sam, Dean considered the younger man, for a moment. "Yeah," he replied, at some length. "Yeah, it is, Sammy. You did it." He had, but... "It's all over, now." Sam nodded, and, together, they made a slow start away from the nightmare.  
_  
_The funny feeling in Dean's gut, well... He usually only had that, walking_ into _trouble._


End file.
